


Shrine of Lies

by enilosa



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Fem!Haytham, Gen, Genderbending, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, fem!william, romance novel with death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:37:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enilosa/pseuds/enilosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among high society she was Arlette, moving gracefully among men and women of her social class and politely avoiding marriage as well she could, despite whispers of how she’d end up a spinster one of these days.  Among the Templars, Haytham was a well-honed blade; a weapon so far above the skill and rank of others he was rarely seen and even more rarely worked with others.  Her life restarted once as a child, and restarted again when she crossed the Atlantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

_My care is like my shadow, laid bare beneath the sun – it follows me at all times and flies when I pursue it._

 

“I want to fight like the other children.”

Reginald Birch looked up from his desk at Arlette, scrawny and tall for her age, proud Kenway chin set in a defiant pout as though daring her caretaker to deny her.  Despite the bravado she tried to show her fists shook slightly at her sides and it took every ounce of strength in her tiny body to keep her lower lip from trembling under the older man’s scrutiny.

An exasperated sigh escaped the Grandmaster’s mouth to hear this plea again.  Nearly daily Arlette found her way to his study to beg tutelage from her guardian.  “The other children are all young men, Arlette,” he replied.  “You have no business holding a sword.”

A familiar fury blossomed in the ten-year-old.  “But I have!”

Reginald watched her flushed face with incredulity a moment longer before nodding.  He couldn’t dispute facts.  Nor could he dispute that he had heard a furious stomp as soon as he went back to the seemingly endless paperwork before him.

The icy glance up at her tantrum almost dried the words in Arlette’s mouth.  “I want to fight,” she managed, embarrassed at how it squeaked out.  “If—if you won’t help me I’ll find someone who will,” she tried, voice stronger.

“I’ve no doubt,” the older man replied.  He could still remember the same words coming from the girl’s mouth nearly three months ago, the same expression of righteous anger despite the tear tracks on her sooty face.  He’d hoped eventually her hunger for vengeance would be quelled but it seemed he’d have no such luck.  Sighing again, he really had no time for this, though it might prove a fascinating distraction, he nodded.  Better to train an agent than have a radical getting herself killed or, worse, ending up on the wrong side of this hidden war.  “You start tomorrow.”

And so Arlette began a new life: hair cut to match the style a boy her age might wear, clothes cut just right to hide any physical changes that might give her away, an attitude of superiority to keep others at a distance, and a new name among her fellow Templars:

Haytham Kenway.

xXx

Many years passed.  The initial elation at her new life and lessons dissipated quickly as Arlette realized the reality of being herself and Haytham.  Training her voice to mimic the other boys and later in life men around her; learning how to apply makeup properly to accent her jaw, cheeks, and nose, and then again to soften her face for balls and the like; binding her chest and wearing heavy clothes and boots to help her appear taller, larger, more masculine, regardless of the weather.  At the same time, learning how to act like an upper-class woman so she could use all her potential and charms to help the Templars.  It was hard work, but this training was easier than living a new life.

Among high society she was Arlette, moving gracefully among men and women of her social class and politely avoiding marriage as well she could, despite whispers of how she’d end up a spinster one of these days.  Among the Templars, Haytham was a well-honed blade; a weapon so far above the skill and rank of others he was rarely seen and even more rarely worked with others.

It was lonely, to say the least, but the solitude of her double-life became comfortable in its familiarity.  After all, Arlette had been a lonely child who grew into a beautiful but at times forlorn woman, and Haytham was a ghost.

Her life restarted again when she crossed the Atlantic.

xXx

**Boston 1754**

Arlette had to resist to urge to sigh with relief when her ship docked.  Three months of faking masculinity had taken their toll and she was well exhausted.  As if using Haytham’s guise as a stiff, pompous upper-class man to keep the other men on board at bay wasn’t work enough, she’d somehow managed to get herself stuck in a mutiny.

Her typically impassive face pinched into a slight frown.  Well, ‘mutiny’ was a strong word for what happened.

There was still a question of “why” ringing in her mind.  Why did the Assassins feel the need to stop her from coming to the New World?  Why didn’t the Templars know about their naval superiority, and did it carry over to the colonies?  Mostly she was still stuck on Mills.  Arlette had killed many under the disguise of Haytham Kenway but his death bothered her more.  He’d caught on, hadn’t he?  That ‘Haytham’ didn’t really exist, that she wasn’t at all who she claimed to be.  Why hadn’t he exposed her—why hadn’t he underestimated her, if he’d known she was a woman?

These questions had no bearing and she knew it.  Mills was dead.  Whatever questions she had about him and his Brotherhood had died with him.

Briefly Arlette considered writing to Jim Holden, one of the few among the Order who knew about her façade, and asking him to do a bit of prying into the matter, but by the time her letter reached him she likely would’ve gotten her answers on her on her own.  There was still a bit of temptation, but for all the wrong reasons and she knew it.  Arlette was not a pathetic, simpering schoolgirl pining after a husband; although, she could do worse in terms of compatibility.  She’d miss Holden, and hoped selfishly he’d miss her too.

 _Now is not the time for such thoughts,_ the newly-appointed Templar Grandmaster scolded herself.  She straightened her coat one last time before departing the ship, chin held high and hands clasped behind her back just so.  She’d learned quickly to impersonate the respected men around Reginald’s chateau in posture and to wear gloves over her weathered (yet somehow still-feminine) hands.  Surveying the area around her subtly for enemies and out of genuine curiosity for the city so different from London she barely had time to react to a man calling for her—or, rather, Haytham.

“Master Kenway- Master Kenway!”  Arlette’s guard went up immediately, tensing her shoulders and shifting her weight to her back foot as a dark-haired man, likely not much younger than herself though with a brightness in his eyes that suggested a lack of experience in the world, came running toward her.  The outstretched hand did little to assuage her, either.  “Charles Lee, sir,” he slowed once he reached her side and some tension relaxed.  Yes, she’d been briefed on the Lees before coming over.

“A pleasure,” Arlette began, swallowing a noise of surprise and annoyance when he grabbed her hand to shake vigorously.  As politely as she could, the Templar fixed him with a steely glance and pulled her hand free.

“It’s an absolute honor, sir, to finally meet you.”  Lee continued, obviously not terribly affected by Arlette’s distaste for his display.  “I’ve come to escort you to the Green Dragon, where your lodgings have been arranged, and show you around Boston,” he continued, undeterred by any of Arlette’s attempts at getting a word in.  She already knew all of this, and was quite sure she could manage to find her way on her own, she honestly just wanted a break from men and being Master Haytham Kenway.

“Wonderful,” she said, voice pitched soft and low.  She really detested the idea of spending much more time around people, but her upbringing forced her to remain polite anyway.

A thought suddenly occurred to her as her belongings were brought to shore.  If she had the excuse of exhaustion due to the long voyage and then carrying the trunks to an inn, perhaps she could manage a few hours alone!  No one, not even in the seemingly infallible Haytham Kenway, could escape the human need for rest and recuperation, right?  Almost gleefully she began stooping to pick up her luggage… only to be stopped again.

About to protest she was cut off by Charles, explaining eagerly he’d already arranged for her luggage’s transport to the Green Dragon.

Damn it all.

Eyes narrowed briefly but Arlette merely straightened.

“I would rather have warning before such things are arranged,” she told him haughtily, voice nearly a growl—respectful but with an edge to it saying Lee ought not test Master Kenway further.  She fervently hoped he didn’t know about the items kept in her trunks to keep her double life afloat.  If he did, she was already in danger; the Order technically didn’t include women.  But he seemed too… the word ‘daft’ seemed unkind, but he did come across somewhat dense and as though he would require more training to earn a discerning eye.  For now, it was just fine, if it kept Haytham’s secret safe.

Procuring horses was easy enough, even if Arlette mourned the loss of her excuse for a few hours or even minutes respite from wearing the skin of uptight Grandmaster Haytham Kenway.

The ride to the Green Dragon comprised mostly of Arlette gently reprimanding Charles about keeping his limited, privileged view from clouding his judgment and thereby affecting his chances at truly understanding Templar doctrine well enough to be fully instigated in the Order, deflecting further conversation on the Order and Lee’s own standing within it what felt like dozens of times, and mapping the streets of Boston into her mind, so by the time they arrived she was exhausted and very ready to simply retire rather than meet with anyone.  But such was the world, her first contact was already waiting upstairs.

To Arlette’s surprise and relief, the contact, whom she’d assumed was a Mister Johnson, turned out instead to be an eccentrically-dressed woman, whose long auburn hair had been braided and pinned up.  Arlette nearly let her shoulders sag in relief at seeing another woman.  “Mistress Johnson?”  She asked, voice soft but no longer as gruff as she tried to make it when pretending to be a man.

The woman turned in her chair, storm-blue eyes scrutinizing for a moment before her bowed lips quirked into a half-smile and the crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes crinkled ever-so-slightly.  “Yes.  Willa Johnson, Grandmaster..?”

Arlette spared a glance over her shoulder, glad to see Charles had made himself somewhat scarce.  “Kenway, Arlette Kenway.”

“I have a feeling you’re not often introduced as Arlette.”

“No,” the younger woman chuckled, “I am not.”

Willa’s face crinkled into that pleased expression once again, the type that said she had been around the block a few times and dealing in secrets was nothing new for her.  In fact, something like this probably seemed simple to her, amusing.  “Grandmaster Haytham Kenway couldn’t make it?”

Arlette stiffened.  Had she read her ally incorrectly?  Did Willa not know?

Obviously the fear showed in her eyes because next Willa waved her hand in lieu of an apology.  “I was trying to joke, Mistress Kenway.  I received a letter letting me know of your unique situation about a week ago.  Don’t worry, I’m the only one who knows,” she motioned with her head meaningfully toward Charles.  “He seems a good sort, earnest, if a bit… dense.”

Arlette nodded, at least someone agreed with her.

“But I can hardly promise that’s true of everyone you’ll be working with here,” Willa warned.  Arlette looked up from the table, eyes still partially shadowed from her tricorne and shoulders stiff again out of nervous habit.  “Your secret is safe with me.  That doesn’t mean others won’t discover it.  You’re not the only one who knows how to wear a mask, Mistress Kenway—though I will say you are the most accomplished at it I’ve seen.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I have nowhere else to be,” Willa laughed.  The sound warmed Arlette; it felt like they were old friends already.  “Working this closely with the Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite… though I must say I’d likely be better use to you ten years ago, before I was settled and married.”

Arlette shook her head.  “No, you have experience and connections now you wouldn’t have had ten years ago.  I need your knowledge on the natives of this land, not your marital connections.”  She brought forth the amulet that had sent her on this journey in the first place from a pocket, holding it reverently.  She’d come to understand some of Reginald’s obsession with the Precursors after spending so much time in close quarters with the amulet.  It was raw, untapped power, but it felt perfectly maintained at the same time and drew her in just looking at it.  Even now with Willa there she could feel the pull to use it, somehow, even though she hadn’t the slightest what it was or how to use it in the first place.  “Have you seen anything like this, the markings or the symbol, among the tribes here?”

Willa took the amulet delicately and examined it a moment before apparently giving up.  “Not that I recall.  I have research and notes that would help, but…”

Arlette sighed through her nose.  There was always a ‘but’.

The other woman, to her credit, at least looked apologetic.  “My associate, Thomas Hickey, is working on getting my research back from the bandits that stole it,” she said.  “He is, well, bluntly put he’s more than a bit of a scoundrel.  He knows his way around the street gangs better than anyone else in our Order, though.  Since he’s not here you’ll likely find him at the bandits’ campsite, near the edge of Boston.”

A stiff nod and Arlette began to turn away.  “Ah, Miss, wait.”  A short glance over her shoulder.  Willa’s hands were folded in front of her over the amulet, the half-smile back.  “My associate may be a scoundrel but he is worth your time—he does know how to do his job, and he does it better than he gets credit for most of the time.  And he has his… charms.”

“I… am glad to hear it,” Arlette said, stilted as she refused to acknowledge the last bit of Willa’s statement.  Wasn’t she married?  What was she implying?

 _Nothing, probably_.  Arlette mentally shook herself and continued on downstairs and out the door, Charles trailing at her heels.  They had a box of research and scoundrel to find.

xXx

Said scoundrel was much easier to find than previously anticipated.  Arlette had half-expected a mad search through all of Boston (‘especially the taverns’, Charles had warned her with a note of disgust and a wrinkled nose) but instead they’d come across the scruffy man near a half-formed fort.  It looked as though it had been abandoned halfway through its building, but was still formidable enough to keep out anyone who wanted to get in.  It was either his usual haunting grounds or where Willa’s work was hidden, if what the older woman had told her were true about Hickey’s ability to do his work.

…She was beginning to have her doubts as she and Charles approached the dark haired and bruised-eyed man, who swayed slightly where he stood.  Arlette wouldn’t trust him to put on his own trousers without help, much less do a quarter of the work expected of a Templar agent.

However, her doubts shook as his head turned toward them and sharp, intelligent eyes scanned them both quickly.  Scoundrel he might be, but those eyes said he was at least observant.

It was hard not to take offense at how unimpressed those eyes appeared.  Arlette had grown accustomed to a certain amount of respect being shown just by her appearance in a room, to be so quickly dismissed in the eyes of some low-born drunken hooligan burned her.  Now was not the time—there would never really be a time, she supposed, to grow angry with his impudence, so instead she steeled herself.  And easy task, she’d found, when walking in the shoes of Haytham.

Authoritative and collected as ever Arlette stopped a few feet from where Hickey leaned against a fence.  “Thomas Hickey, I presume?”

It was hard not to see herself back when she was still young and proving herself to the other boys as Haytham in the way he turned his chin upward and slit his eyes before responding gruffly.  “Who’s askin’?”

“ _Grandmaster Haytham Kenway_ , have some respect, you-“

“Peace, Charles.”  Arlette ground out.  With her voice already lowered and gravelly it sounded more aggressive than the words probably meant, but it seemed to cow him.

Despite the moment of pause it gave Hickey, he was still apparently nonplussed by either of the gentlemen before him.  “’S that s’posed ta mean somefin’ to me?”

 _Apparently not_ , the Grandmaster thought before silencing another outburst of temper from Charles with a glance his way.

Arlette sighed through her nose.  Between how she could practically _feel_ Charles vibrating with fury at the utter lack of respect and how Thomas Hickey’s… well, utter lack of respect left him shut down to the both of them, she was sensing a much harder task than initially thought.

“As said, I am Haytham Kenway, this is Charles Lee.  We’re here to expedite your search.”

“Don’ need no expeditin’.”  Hickey petulantly turned away from the pair.  _Dear God, this is like dealing with a child_.  “Don’ need none’a your fancy London-speak neither,” he continued, eyes still narrowed and looking away.  “I know who done the theft.”

Frustration began to boil up in Arlette.  Not nearly so much so as in Charles, however, who looked about ready to explode.  “Then why haven’t you taken it back?”  The tone in Arlette’s voice was all Haytham, all threats of repercussion for negligence of his duties and authority demanding a real answer.

This time it seemed to get through to Hickey, at least, and he pointed toward the watching guards outside the fortress.  “Figurin’ out ‘ow ta deal with _them_.”  He turned back to look at the Grandmaster finally, still defiant but at least giving some of the attention owed.  “Any ideas?”

Arlette looked up past the gates to assess the situation more properly.  Hickey had a point, there was no way only man could get in and out, not even Haytham.  The guards appeared lax enough that with correct timing and placement the three of them could get in and then steal away back to the Green Dragon.

For his part Thomas Hickey’s irritated eye-roll showed her clearly he was getting annoyed with how long this was taking, too.  His annoyance felt like recompense for the amount he’d already caused her today.  Two could play at that game.  Although it also brought with it some grudging respect; clearly Hickey had been thinking this over and watching the guards and their shifts a long time if he was impatient now that there were three of them to take care of their thievery problem.

“I’ll take out the guard up there.”  The pistol was out and loaded already as Arlette motioned toward the man half paying attention from his elevated lookout.  “At my signal, you two take out the guards in front and make your way in to meet me.”

Hickey grinned in a way that bordered on lunatic.  “Sneaky, I like it.”

Charles looked like he would be happier taking out the man standing beside him, but finally nodded.  He’d get over it, and if not then the Grandmaster would have a long chat with him.  They had to work together, like it or not.  Arlette was none too thrilled about him either, but Hickey had yet to prove himself.  She’d give him a chance to show if he was what Willa claimed he was.

As the pair backed away into the brush, Arlette relaxed down into a hunter’s crouch, letting Haytham’s training take over her every step.  For reasons she’d never understand, fighting as Haytham came to her easily, naturally, more so than pretending to be the nobleman.  She fought like a man easily yet had to fight to keep a grip on his mannerisms outside of work.  She made short work of the guards, slipping unseen between patches of undergrowth and around stacks of artillery and provisions to make efficient kills.  As she waited for one of the two men talking just a few meters ahead of her to leave, Arlette checked over her shoulder for where Charles and Thomas should be, switching in her mind to her special vision.  The world washed out around her and she gave the area a cursory glance, the backs of her eyes burning at the spots of red just out of her line of sight.  Thomas and Charles both gleamed a bright blue from where they were well-hidden and she had to admit some pride in their competency.  She could sense one of the men getting closer and switched from her special vision, eyes bleary but reactions sharp enough to grab the man’s coat to drag him near, cover his mouth to muffle the shout of surprise, and finally bury her blade in his ribs.  Once she felt blood bubble up from his mouth she released him and turned to fire a shot into the last man’s head, signal enough to Thomas and Charles to charge the fort.

Dimly she was aware of Thomas saying something about ‘so much for stealth’ as several more thugs came at her.  Only a few this time, and she was able to slit one’s throat as she sprinted past to meet Thomas and Charles at the center of the fort.  She vaulted over a low fence and landed heavily on another of the thugs, his collars and neck snapping under her weight and sending him to the ground permanently.

Her eyes met Charles’ for a moment, his sword drawn as he’d apparently been fighting the man she’d just killed.  Before he could begin kowtowing at Master Kenway’s feet and thanking her profusely Arlette was off again, following the remaining thieves’ retreat.

Hickey apparently had the same idea as she was suddenly overtaken by him trying to get through the next set of doors protecting the heart of the fort.  “Damn!”  He snapped, all-but skidding to a halt as they shut, knowing it useless to continue forward.  Arlette had to agree with the younger man, scanning for any weakness they could use.

“There!”  Hickey said suddenly, pointing to a powder cask near the door.  Arlette raised her eyebrows and nodded.  That would work.  “Got no shot left,” he explained, gesturing with his apparently empty musket.

Charles rolled his eyes as if being out of bullets was a huge tally against Hickey, though by this point Arlette was beginning to think simply by breathing Thomas Hickey would never gain positive reactions from Charles.

Lining up her own pistol Arlette fired a shot into the cask, igniting the black powder within and effectively blowing a hole through the doors more than big enough for the trio to get through.  The sound had no doubt alerted the men hidden inside the fort of their press onward.

Both Thomas and Charles ran ahead as Arlette reloaded, anticipating needing her pistol again soon, before she too followed.  Once through the still-smoldering doors she could see Charles in combat with two men, using his sword rather deftly to cut through one man’s calf and then spinning to disarm and ram his blade through the other, wholly at ease with his work.  The hopeful Templar protégé was as at ease as Arlette felt with a blade, it seemed.  Hickey, for his part, had abandoned his musket (or perhaps lost it, given his loose movements) in favor of bludgeoning one man then another with a candlestick.

If she herself wasn’t so concerned with stabbing the neck of her own opponent, she might laugh at the resourcefulness of their resident scoundrel.

It took a short amount of time for the three to finish off their opponents and finally make their way to where Willa’s research was hidden.  Arlette picked up the chest, ready to leave, when the tell-tale click of a pistol made her stiffen and had her companions whirling to face the enemy.

The apparent leader of the thieves stood now with two men flanking him, barring the trio’s exit and pointing the barrel of his gun at her chest.

“Lay down your weapons,” he demanded, “and I’ll consider letting you live.”

Presumptuous bastard.  Arlette rankled at the words, and that he got the drop on them somehow.  “I make you the same offer.  We have no quarrel.”  She all but snarled the words, contrasting with her smooth words and demeanor.  “We only wish to return this to its rightful owner.”

She could feel the tension rise around Hickey as the man continued.  “Nothing ‘rightful’ about Johnson,” he scoffed.

Whether the tension in her comrade was due to the words spoken against Willa or in preparation for a fight, Arlette knew it would help them all move quickly when needed.  She glared over the barrel of her pistol.  “I won’t ask again.”

“Agreed.”

Time seemed to slow as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger, but not faster than Arlette’s.  The sound of a gunshot brought everything back to speed as the man dropped.  Thomas and Charles rushed the other two men before they could recover from the loss of what should have been a simple victory in their eyes.

The gang leader groaned in pain as he tried to get away from Arlette as she stepped forward, eyes dark under her tricorne.  “Who put you up to this?”

There was no more defiance, only self-preservation as the man clutched his bleeding leg.  “Never seen anyone.  Always been dead drops and letters, but they always pay, so we do the jobs,” he explained quickly.

“Those days are over.”  Arlette told him.  Behind her she could hear Hickey snort a bit; laughter, she supposed, knowing full well even if this group was scared off helping their enemy there would always be people willing to work for money.  “Tell them I said as much.”

The man cried out in pain again when he stood up awkwardly, about to run off, or at least scurry away from the imposing figure in front of him.  “Who—who do I say you are?”

“You don’t.  They’ll know.”

He barely nodded before half-limping, half-running off.  Arlette watched him go, wondering briefly who he was reporting to.  Assassins?  A trade rival of the Johnsons?  Some other unexpected dark horse?  At the moment it didn’t matter, but they’d find out eventually.

Now the three Templars now stood unimpeded at all.  The silence around them felt odd, Arlette nearly expecting to see more people come at them.

“Bes’ check them’s pockets for shot, seein’ as your pistol’s parched,” Thomas said from where he stood over one of the bodies.  His face spread into a grin when she met his eyes.  “Might ‘ave some other good loot, too.”

Arlette sighed through her nose.  He had a point, and respect for the dead was hard to justify at times as a Templar.  Who knew what these men had on them, if they’d taken Willa’s work.

“Charles, take the chest.” She ordered as she reloaded her pistol from shot taken from one of the bodies.

Thomas stretched lazily in front of them.  “Johnson’s gotta increase my pay after this one.”

xXx

The small room in the Green Dragon wasn’t exactly home but it would do.  Arlette was happy at least to finally wash off properly.  After scrubbing her face clean in the washbasin in her room she moved to sit at the edge of her bed, dressed now only in trousers and an undershirt.  Hardly appropriate and if anyone saw her like this it would put her whole façade in danger.  As she untied her hair to brush it out, she thought on how different it would be here.  In Europe, Arlette was the one who showed her face most commonly, except around the other Templars.  Here, Haytham was the face she’d wear most of the time, if not all of it.

She sagged to think of it.  It tired her out, having to be nearly superhuman each day just to pass as a man.

At least her compatriots seemed to respect Haytham already, so she wouldn’t need to assert his persona so aggressively.  Charles practically worshipped the idea of Haytham Kenway, Willa was willing to keep Arlette’s secret, and even Thomas Hickey had dropped the defenses and impudence against him.  After a few drinks and some moaning about Willa’s insistence he bathe before continuing to pander for a pay raise he seemed a rather amicable, if crass, companion.

Speaking of, she could hear his barking laughter pass by her room, accompanied by the tittering of what she assumed was the barkeep’s wife.

Shaking her head, Arlette stood again to bring her candle and journal over to the bedside to write before resting.  The moment she uncorked the ink however a soft knocking on her door startled her.  Fear seized her; who was looking for her this late at night?  She didn’t have time to disguise herself properly.

“It’s only me,” Willa called from the other side of the door.  Arlette breathed a sigh of relief.

“You can come in.”  The older woman did just that, shutting the door behind her and smiling at Arlette.

“May I sit down?”  Arlette indicated the chair still at the desk, and Willa took it with a nod of thanks.  “So, now that you’ve met my associate, what do you think of him?”

A laugh bubbled from Arlette’s lips.  “He was able to handle himself earlier.  I admit I had little faith in him at first.”

“But?”

“What makes you think there’s a ‘but’?”  Arlette asked.  Willa had that knowing look on her face and the Grandmaster knew her tone had given it away.  “He’s growing on me.  A bit.”

It was Willa’s turn to laugh.  “He does that.  I promise you he has a good heart and intentions, even if they come in a less than desirable package at times.”  The older woman smoothed her skirts before continuing.  “I’m afraid I have no leads yet on your artifact, but I’ll have Thomas looking out as well by tomorrow.  For now, he’s… indisposed.”

“I noticed.”

“I was in no mood to fight him over it.”

Arlette hummed, a small half-smile on her face.  “We all need a rest after today.”

“Agreed,” Willa stood with a curtsy.  “We’ll continue our discussions in the morning.  I’m sure there will be more to talk about when we have all convened.”

Suddenly Arlette recalled something that had been plaguing her earlier.  “Willa—you wouldn’t know of anyone who would want to interfere with your work, would you?”

The question seemed to startle the other woman.  “Beside the thugs who took my research?”

“They were answering to someone else.  They were not acting of their own accord.”

“No,” Willa’s face was perturbed.  “I can’t think of anyone.”

Arlette hummed in response.  More mysteries.  Assassins, maybe, but what would they want with cultural notes?  They couldn’t know about Haytham’s involvement with the Templars here yet.  Could they?  “Thank you.  We’ll have to look into this further, another time.”

Willa didn’t seem comforted by this.  “Yes.  Goodnight, Grandmaster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First fic in a long time. I hope people like it so far, I promise this chapter is the only one that will basically repeat the scenes in the game, there is an actual plot beyond it.
> 
> NOTE EDIT: forgot to mention two things.  
> The lyrics at the top of the chapter are from "The Virgin Queen" by the Mediaeval Baebes. It's worth a listen, and describes much of the muse driving Arlette.
> 
> Arlette's name was also picked due to its meaning being closer to 'Haytham' than it sounding similar. 'Arlette', when derived from a Germanic or French base means approximately 'little/baby eagle', and when taken from Celtic origins means 'an oath'. I picked it for the first one, seeing as 'Haytham' is an Arabic name meaning 'young eagle'.


	2. New Beginnings : Part I

Weeks passed with minor incident, or no more than Arlette was used to at this point.  Gathering her inner circle brought its challenges and dangers of course.  All aspects of the life of a Templar did, to an extent, and with no further news on the Assassins or whomever stole Willa’s work a little excitement here and there did them all good.

Charles was a quick learner and did as told—sometimes to a fault, Arlette couldn’t help thinking that perhaps bringing some ‘question everything’ ideology to her protégé would do him good.  He’d turned out incredibly handy on her missions and took to his training well.  She supposed military experience and a heritage with the Order had prepared him to an extent for the errands he now did either with or for Arlette.  Already she considered him as good as entered into their fold, the only thing missing was the pomp and ceremony surrounding his total induction into the Order.  Arlette assumed the rest of her inner circle thought as much as well, seeing as how they’d relaxed somewhat around him and more or less let him into their established friendships.

Arlette had initially assumed she’d remain aloof to the men (and apparently woman) she worked with when she came to the colonies.  Instead she was finding herself ever more attached to them all, Willa especially, but Charles truly did have a good heart, Benjamin had his moments of humanity, John Pitcairn had an easy smile and manner when he was about, and even Thomas grew on her.

She blamed Willa a bit for that.

The older woman clearly had some long history with their resident scoundrel and easily enough excused his “charming” demeanor.  Unfortunately, Arlette couldn’t help but smile along bemusedly with Willa at his antics sometimes.  He was immature, yes, and a drunken fool.  But he was _their_ immature drunken fool.  And he did his job well enough—her only complaint really being his lack of paper reports.  Willa made it obvious she was used to it by now and would hound him about it or simply let the weight of missed deadlines make him panic as it kept his pay at bay.

Other than these domestic issues there was little at all to keep her busy, though.  Arlette grew ever-more restless, expecting to have met Assassins by now or run into further trouble with Braddock.

Ah, Braddock.  She’d known him many years, as he was one of the few Templars who knew the truth about Haytham Kenway.  From the start she’d disliked him, his condescending air and ever-displeased look.  The initial dislike only grew after meeting him in the Black Forest and spending time learning about his campaigns firsthand and from Holden.  It seemed little had changed, given how he snapped and snarled over Pitcairn, and if the rumors could be trusted he still wielded his authority like a sword and pity any who couldn’t dodge the blade.  It worried her, to say the least.  He was acting outside his parameters as a Templar, even if she couldn’t speak for the military from experience, and that bode ill for the Colonial Rite.  He could easily cause a power rift if he began turning the few Templar recruits against Grandmaster Kenway’s control, and the last thing she needed on top of figuring out the Precursor site and potentially rooting out Assassins, should any more cross her path, was a coup on her hands.

Actually, she was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t General Braddock who set out to steal Willa’s work.  He’d always had a fascination with power, and the Precursors were all that and more.

She was debating the exact issue of how to navigate Braddock’s war and the secret one the Templars fought in when information on slave trade of native people occurring right under the general’s nose came to them.  Surprisingly enough, not through Thomas’ connections to that ugly underworld but through Benjamin Church.

Regardless of where the information came from, it happened to be a perfect in for Arlette’s merry band with the natives of the land, who were rather stalwart about keeping the secrecy, even from someone as connected as Willa.

The plan came together wonderfully at first—steal uniforms from a redcoat patrol and infiltrate the camp, Trojan-style, then free the captured natives and be on their jolly way with new allies.  One step closer to the Precursor site and getting Reginald off her back about it.

When it came to the actuality of the plan, Arlette realized several glaring flaws in her plan.

One, changing among her fellows was simply not an option.

Two, the damned uniform was much tighter than initially anticipated.

Unlike her usual garb as Haytham the red and white uniform hugged her chest just a bit too much, and the length was much shorter, allowing for more view of her legs.  It took a bit of creativity in how she arranged the folds of fabric and the belts to hide her hips and more… incriminating things.  Even with her breasts bound tight enough to appear like pectorals, especially with the careful padding of her normal coat, the way the fabric stretched around her chest and shoulders worried her.  She was thankful at least she’d be able to ride ahead of the rest and would be working primarily alone on this one, so it was possible, nay, even likely she’d escape notice.  Barely.

Assuming none of her men were inverts.  And while she had no problem with it herself, really—the Order could care less who or what their members fancied so long as it didn’t distract them from their duties—she had her suspicions about Charles and deep concern that should his gaze linger too long he might figure out her lie.

There was nothing for it now, though.  There were natives to be saved and slavers to be killed.

xXx

Night fell on Boston by the time Arlette and her company returned to their temporary home.  The Grandmaster had remained silent the entire ride back, save for a few hums and monosyllabic responses when her men pulled her into conversation.

She didn’t stay engaged long, though, thoughts too absorbed by that strange man who had sat beside her on the wagon.

Something about him fascinated her.  It went beyond simple aesthetics, she knew now, though at the time she’d berated herself for gawping like a love-struck child.  His strong features, the freckles dotting his nose just slightly, bronzed skin a color and complexion so perfect and lovely the likes of which she’d never seen, rangy muscle concealed beneath a deerskin tunic, and especially those dark eyes that bore into hers like he could see her soul…  It had been rude to stare as she had, she knew.

But he’d returned the gaze, though through far more hostile eyes.  Yet she recalled curiosity too.  The scrutiny made her uncomfortable at first, worried he’d see right through her.  Thankfully, the man made no show to realizing anything.  In fact, the only words he said to her were a demand to be let free.

That roguish half-smile he sent her way as he left with his people, though...

Arlette swore to herself she’d find him.  For the good of the mission, of course, he saw her as an ally at the very least if she could trust her reading of silent cues.  She quashed the smaller part of her that sent her stomach fluttering to think of being alone with him again.  She had no time for romance, especially not with a man who likely thought she was one too.

Regardless of her personal feelings, this man had to be found.

xXx

“Will you _slow down_?!”  Arlette’s voice cracked even as the shout was swallowed by the heavy blanket of snow.  The nearly-hysteric tone was not befitting a Templar, much less a Templar Grandmaster but for God’s sake how long could this man run?  And how could he move so quickly in this snow, and now—damn it all, was he in the _trees_?

“Can we… talk… about this?” She yelled, attempting to clamber up one of the ancient trees with no success.  After falling back on her arse and then clambering to her feet again to chase down the man who’d apparently decided to come back to earth while she made a fool of herself, Arlette sprinted as well as she could through the snow, weighed down by her heavy clothing.  Despite said clothing, chill still seeped into her bones and she couldn’t understand how her current quarry could run around in the middle of blasted winter with nearly bare arms.

Finally she managed to catch up to him, body slamming the man and sending them both sprawling to the ground before he leapt up again.

Arlette cursed and replaced her snowy hat upon her head before continuing her pursuit.  He was _not_ getting away, not after months of tracking him down and especially not after she’d humiliated herself so badly on this wild chase.  “Stop!”

Much to her surprise the man actually did, spinning on his heel and folding his arms.

Arlette slowed as quickly, aided by the thick, powdery snow.  Gasping for breath at this point and rather inelegantly dragging herself through the snow she searched for what to say, unsure if the man she had searched for so long could actually speak English or if he’d merely stopped out of pity.

“Me—Haytham.  I come… in peace,” Arlette gasped between the words, still trying to catch her breath.  Her voice was rough from shouting, something she had to be momentarily thankful for considering she wasn’t doing a great job of pitching her voice to match her masculine disguise.

She looked up finally when the native man began speaking, tone clearly irritated.  “Why- are- you- speaking- so- slow.”

“My apologies,” Arlette said quickly, relieved they both spoke the same language.  Although maybe she should have realized that, considering he had spoken to her before.

There was no answer from the man in front of her, who instead just kept a stoic and somewhat untrusting expression.

This wasn’t going at all as Arlette hoped.  She’d hoped maybe he’d recall her and what she’d done for his people, but it seemed she was going to have no such luck.  “You, ah, what should I call you?”

The man debated a moment before responding.  “Kaniehtí:io.”

Damn it.  Was nothing easy?  “Ka—gadzee—“

An exasperated sigh.  “Just call me Ziio.”

“Diio,” Arlette, tried, relieved until the man’s brows lowered in annoyance again.

“ _Ziio_.”

“Ziio.”  At least this time he seemed pleased with her pronunciation.  And, he hadn’t run away.

But there it was again, that scrutinizing gaze and this time it really did feel like he was looking right through her, as if he could see through every deception she’d ever woven and every wall she’d put up.  Uncomfortable, she had to fight not to look away.

“Why are you here?”

‘ _I came looking for you because ever since I saw you all those months ago I can’t stop thinking about you and also I need to find out about this amulet from the source so I have been hunting you down for months’_ did not seem like the kind of answer that would go over well with Ziio.  Instead Arlette brought out the amulet and extended it to the still-wary man before her.  “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Arlette had to hand it to the man, he was good at hiding his emotions.  But for just a second long enough she could see the surprise and wariness writ across his features.  “Where did you get this?” He demanded.

“So you _do_ know of it,” a bubble of excitement grew in Arlette, though it remained carefully under control.

“…Maybe.  Maybe not.”  Arlette would’ve groaned in frustration if Ziio didn’t continue speaking right then.  “I do not know if I trust you yet.”

 _Not even after I saved him and countless of his people from slavery?_ “Then what would you have me do to earn that trust?”

The roguish half-smile was back.  “Follow me.”

Arlette tried not to sigh in response.  She was rather tired of following this Ziio, now that the Grandmaster had him right here in front of her.  But she gestured with one hand for the Native man to take the lead.

She hadn’t expected her new adventure to be easy, considering how much trouble following Ziio had been the first time, but after an attack by wolves, a race through the trees, a bar fight, and now escaping a military fort by hiding waist-deep in freezing water, Arlette was seriously beginning to wonder if this man was going to be the death of her.

For some reason she didn’t want to dwell on, she didn’t exactly mind the thought.  Especially not when they met again.

“You are uninjured?” He asked once she arrived, maps in hand and boots slowly freezing up.  She shook her head in response.  “I’m glad,” Ziio replied.  Arlette would’ve blushed if not for the cold, but was still thankful when the Native man turned away and she could hide the tiny smile quirking the edge of her lips.

She’d expected… well, she wasn’t sure what, but not this.  More hostility, maybe, than had been shown her.  While he remained wary, Ziio had opened up to her.  At least, in terms of his actions.  Neither had spoken much, but she could still remember the gentleness of his hand as it cleaned the minor injury she’d taken to the cheek during the fight she may or may not have started, back at the inn.

A shock not from the freezing cold of the gale surrounding them hit her as she realized: Ziio had been gentle with her wounds, tender like he cared for her.  But Ziio knew her as Haytham.

She knew the natives had very different views on such things, but.  But.

It was hardly the first time this kind of misunderstanding had happened to Arlette—she’d had other women fawn over Haytham at the occasional gala, had many a beautiful courtesan call for the handsome stranger in cities across the world.  She’d debated accepting the latter offers, even, on a few occasions.  The problem wasn’t so much her sexuality (though she did frequently struggle with coming to terms with it) but more so she didn’t have what these people were looking for, physically or emotionally.  Haytham wasn’t real, and Arlette was definitely not a man.

But maybe, just maybe, if she explained, Ziio would understand.  Maybe he wouldn’t mind, maybe it wouldn’t change his actions toward her if he knew the truth…

Arlette shook herself out of the nice trail of thought.  No one would understand, they never had before.  What should make Ziio any different?  She could just sate her loneliness with these stolen hours until both their missions—taking out Braddock and finding the Precursor site—were completed.  It wasn’t much but it would do.  It was more than she’d ever allowed herself before.

“Haytham,” Ziio all but snapped and the disguised woman looked up quickly.  Ziio looked cross again and she wondered how deep in her fantasies she’d been.  “I asked you a question.”

“Could you repeat it?  The… wind is rather harsh.”

Obviously the excuse didn’t fool the native man but he put up with it, only rolling his eyes.  “Why did you help me before?”

Tricky question.  “I belong to… an order of people, warriors, who strive for equality and peace.”

“I have seen warriors who wear that mark.  Women and men fighting for freedom and peace among the people of this land,” Ziio indicated the well-worn bracer on Arlette’s right arm.  “They have never stopped slave convoys.  Or expressed much interest in my people.”

Arlette felt ice down her spine but steeled her reactions.  “Well, things change as needs arise.”

That seemed to settle the matter for Ziio for the time being, at least, as he nodded, a few strands of his long hair falling before his eyes and calling to Arlette to push them back into place, even though the move would be completely illogical due to the wind and her need to keep him at a distance, considering he thought her a man.

“You still have not answered my question,” he said, intense eyes watching her.  Arlette refused to be cowed by his gaze despite the heat in her ears and stomach from it.

“We have a common goal on this land,” she dodged.

Ziio folded his arms again.  “And what might that be?”

“I… I want to protect the people here.”  His stance relaxed slightly; good answer.  “And I believe Braddock threatens the peace of all who live in the Colonies.  Beyond that, there is something larger at work than just Braddock’s ruthless campaign, and I need your help for that.”

The stupid half-smile, brow arched playfully.  “Is that really all you need from _me_?  There were and are many other people you helped.  They would be happy to have Braddock’s blood on the ground, no matter your price.”  A slight twitch of his lips downward.  “Even if it meant what you are asking now.”

So he _did_ know more than he let on about the amulet and the Precursor site.  “Is it a price you’ll pay, now that I’ve held up my end of the bargain?”

Ziio laughed, earning a glower.  “Braddock still roams free.  You have yet to come through for me.”

Arlette let out of huff of air that froze in front of her face.  “Then what would you have me do?”

“As the needs arise, we can keep in contact.  I will not send you on any more wild chases,” he assured her.  “Although that brings me back to my earlier question—why chase down _me_ when there are hundreds of others in this area?”

What did he want her to say?  To declare her convoluted feelings to him, to admit she was fascinated by everything he was and she wanted nothing more than to stay by his side and fight as they had?  She should spurn him now, snap and snarl that what he was looking for he’d never find.  Not here, not ever.

But that wasn’t true, was it?  And she knew it.  He was too perceptive, he was dragging her along and she didn’t want to admit it out of pride in her own disguise.  His jabs about women earlier made sense now, the tenderness with which he treated her—tenderness she rarely received but so many felt they owed women.

“ _You know_ ,” she hissed, eyes wide.

Ziio shrugged.  “There is nothing wrong with it.”

“You cannot tell _anyone_ , do you hear me?” She snapped.  It wasn’t exactly Templar-like, the rising pitch of her voice in her panic.

This seemed to startle and then confuse Ziio.  “Who would I tell?  Your idiotic friends?”

“Carefully, now.”  Arlette snarled.

The native man dropped his hands in annoyance.  “I have no one to tell, and if I did they would not be interested or concerned the way you colonists are.  There is no shame in fighting as you do.  Well,” Ziio paused a moment, “perhaps for the loser of your fight.  But from what I know of you they would not have long to feel embarrassment over losing.”

“No,” Arlette agreed softly.  Killing was just part of her job.  That didn’t mean she enjoyed knowing how much blood stained her hands.  Very few of her missions had brought her any satisfaction, and even fewer of those that had involved killing another.  It bothered her, how easily it came to her sometimes, but that was beside the point.  She had a job and she was at the top of her field.  She was good and not about to apologize for her skill, even when regret pained her heart to think on the families she may have left without a son, fatherless, or brotherless.

The issue of blood staining her blades was not the one at hand, though.  She’d learned to pigeonhole her guilt and leave it be, to be dealt with whenever Saint Peter called her name.

Ziio’s smile made her stomach flip again and she found herself slowly smiling back.  “We had best get to our homes, Haytham.”

Arlette nodded wordlessly.  She wondered if she should tell him that wasn’t truly her name at all but she was losing him in the whiteout of the storm and would rather he just continue calling her Haytham than lose another moment by his side when it could be months before they saw each other again.

She was beginning to think this went beyond a simple infatuation with the enigmatic native man.

xXx

Nothing for months, and then Arlette sent her men with her to join with the Iroquois in taking down Braddock’s pathetic excuse for a military progression.  They barely moved, so weighed down with artillery and The Bulldog’s frequent abuses of his men.

It was easy enough to take down the man, it was much harder to hold herself back from kicking his stiffening corpse.  The man was a monster, admitted as much, feeling no regret for the innocent lives he took.

Perhaps he was right and she followed too closely in the steps of her father and his Brotherhood.  But she would rather show mercy to the innocent than kill whoever showed any dissent.

Confident she’d rid her Inner Circle of an enemy leading a potential coup and had the Iroquois’ support (especially Ziio’s, she thought, stomach fluttering with the way he smiled at her from across the inn she and her men stayed in that night before he melted into the crowd and sent her looking for him yet again) Arlette allowed herself some respite.

Her men were happy, proud of a job well done, and she took the distraction Thomas allowed as he fell off a table he’d climbed on to declare he’d buy the whole damn inn drinks to go after Ziio.

The night outside an otherwise unassuming cave was silent and still.  A soft breeze rustled the leaves of nearby bushes now and again, and it pushed spare clouds across the moon’s face, but overall the sky was broad and bright and the night warm as Arlette stood beside Ziio.

She checked around them quickly with her special vision, expecting to see nothing but each other and the odd night creature, but instead the inside of the cave glowed like a lantern, urging her toward it—even more so when she recalled the pendant still around her neck, warm against her skin.

“This is the place you sought.”  Ziio said softly, before leading her inside.  Arlette couldn’t tell if it was her imagination, but he seemed almost dismayed.  No, it had to be her imagining things.

“It is a sacred place, one my people have been charged with protecting for generations.”  There it was again, that uneasiness, and it seemed to only grow in her companion as she brought the pendant out and watched the walls glow and patterns dance before they disappeared.  She wanted to scream in frustration—all this, work, for nothing?  “You seem disappointed.”  Obviously her upset showed because Ziio stepped closer.  “What did you expect?”

“I’m not sure.”  That much was true.  “I thought I had a key, one that would open something here.”

“This room is all there is.”

“I expected… more.”

Arlette bowed her head, staring at the amulet in her hand before folding her fist around it.  To her surprise, Ziio placed his hand over hers.

“It tells a story,” Ziio said, pointing with his other hand at the wall.  “Of Iotsitsisonh, who came from the sky and shaped the world for what life was to come.  She had a hard journey, fraught with loss and great peril.”  His hand gently squeezed hers and Arlette looked up slowly to stare at the paintings on the walls.  “But she believed in her children, what they might achieve.  Though she is long gone from the physical world, her eyes still watch us, her ears still hear us… her hands still guide us.”

Gently, very gently, as if he knew she might spook, Ziio pressed a kiss to her lips.

“Her love still gives us strength.”

xXx

“I take it you found your man?”

Arlette looked up at Willa’s words.  There was no real surprise, after all Willa had invited her over for tea.  But was she really being so obvious?  She hadn’t been able to keep a small smile from her lips when she was alone (or felt alone, Willa really was an unobtrusive presence and would’ve made for a good spy if she desired to be one) for days now.  “Am I that transparent?”

Willa hummed knowingly.  “I have been married enough times to know what it looks like when one is besotted.”

“I could just be happy Braddock is out of our hair permanently and we have access to the Precursor site, Willa.”

“Tsk.  I am too old to be so easily brushed off, Mistress Kenway.”

“I’m not about to share the details of my… intimate life.”

“Pity,” Willa sighed in mock disappointment before blowing gently on her tea, watching the younger woman over her teacup.  “Much more interesting than mine, I’ve no doubt.  Though, Joseph makes excellent company—“

Arlette cleared her throat abruptly, ears burning.  “ _Anyway_!”

“I’m just saying—“

“Willa, _please_ , it was one night and I haven’t seen him since,” Arlette replied, straightening her pale gold skirt to keep from having to look Willa in the eye.  She was right, spending the night with Ziio had only resulted in her deep regard for the native man turning from obsession and caring to… dare she even call it love?  She had nothing to compare it to.

“Do you want to see him again?”

That took longer to answer.  Arlette paused for as long as she could until Willa’s unrelenting gaze made her crack under the pressure of the older woman’s knowledge.  “I-I have duties as Grandmaster, and I can’t just leave them be because of a man I met.”

“Do you.  Want to see him again?”

Arlette bit her lip.  It was selfish, but… “Yes.”

Willa shrugged.  “If you can come up with an excuse, I will support you.  It’s nice to see you smiling, rather than so concerned all the time.  Besides,” she set her teacup down again, “if you were correct about a cell of Templars working under Braddock’s orders being the thieves of my work, you’ve protected my family and my happiness.  I see no reason why you shouldn’t be allowed your own for a time.  Who knows, perhaps this Kaniehtí:io can help the Order further if you asked him to join.”

Arlette laughed softly.  “We just welcomed Charles into our fold and already you’re recruiting a man whom we barely know.”

“So go get to know him!” Willa replied with a broad smile, gesturing toward the door.  “The trade routes are _right there_!”

“You now it’s not _that_ simple, Willa _,”_ Arlete replied in exasperation.  But still, the offer was tempting.  She’d found him once and could do it again.

“You’re making it not that simple.”

“It just isn’t!”  Arlette snapped.  She’d become more and more temperamental over the past month and half since she and Ziio went their separate ways, and she was sure it was obvious to everyone.  She had her suspicions why, and it scared her to think of it too long.  “We were together because of Braddock, nothing else.”

The older Templar sighed heavily through her nose.  “Everything I’ve heard, and from the one time I met him, I can see Kaniehtí:io holds affection for you as you do him.  The Templars can run as they are.  We could use the support of the natives, and Kaniehtí:io really has become our way of communicating.  You were sent here to find out about the Precursor site, and so far he only trusts you with it.  Just keep in contact with us about your findings and you have a cover.”

Arlette was growing quite tired of these covers.  She’d only just revealed to Ziio the true nature of Haytham, why he existed, and now she had to hide her first true chance at loving someone who wasn’t her father or mother.

But while with the others she was always afraid of showing them behind the veil, Ziio wasn’t like that.  He’d seen through it, seen her, and she wasn’t scared.  Not of him, anyway.

She’d already taken enough chances on Ziio, what was one more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise real plot starts after this. It does. I swear. I'm trying to update about once a week but uni gets in the way sometimes (darn all that math and animation homework)
> 
> Also, a note on Arlette/Haytham's characterization: I bring up stuff from 'Forsaken' A LOT. It plays a minor role in this story too, though you don't have to have read it to understand if I'm doing my job right.
> 
> Also for any other Thomas Hickey fans, next chapter is basically all him. For Hickey haters, you're gonna have a bad time.


	3. New Beginnings : Part II

Thomas Hickey had made it his personal mission to do everything on the list of Things Most Normal People Never Do.

Not on purpose, of course.  It just sort of happened one day, sometime between his seventh and eighth birthday when he ended up with one or two too many bruises for a kid of his age after deciding to climb into the neighbor’s bull’s pen on a dare.  His mother had been furious once she recovered from the shock of her little Tom coming home, thankfully without major injury but covered in mud and grass and whatever else was in that damned pen.  His father had been fighting mad, too, come to think of it, but Thomas couldn’t remember a time his father hadn’t been in a fit of temper, truthfully.  It was more shocking for his mother to cuff him over the ear and shout at his older brother, using words she’d never dare use in front of their younger siblings, than it was for their father to backhand him over something more stupid than an angry neighbor.

Unlike his older brother, though, Thomas hadn’t taken that lesson as a time to wise up and start using some sense.  Maybe he just had none.  Either way, Thomas only became more and more a delinquent from that point on.  There was not a dare he wouldn’t take nor a challenge he would back down from, until his life was really on the line.  But if the stakes were high enough…

And maybe that’s why he was a Templar now.  The pay was really the only reason he agreed to join up with the shady group.  And, their respect for his special skill set.

Oh, the bosses complained, of course they did, for his whoring and drinking and cussing and fighting outside of their targets.  But rules were not his forte and Thomas wasn’t about to start listening just because some old grump harrumphed at him.  He really only respected Willa Johnson and only because he owed her several times over for his life.  And, well, she had her other _incentives_ for him to do his work with minimal griping for a while there.

Everything was exactly as Thomas had hoped for in his life: easy, simple, straight-forward, and unchanging.  He couldn’t ask for more than that, honestly.  By the time he was grown, perhaps a little before then, he just wanted to make a happy little sum of money for himself, just enough to get by on.  And the Templars offered him all of that.  Steadiness in pay and respect for his unconventional lifestyle so long as he kept a finger on the pulse of the Colonies’ underground markets.

Things were changing, though.  Faster than he’d like.

Thomas was a simple man who liked simple things and disliked thinking too much—he didn’t want to think the Johnsons were in any trouble like Kenway did, he didn’t want to fight the Assassins who were cropping up all over Boston again, he didn’t want the power to change hands so fast like it had.

But life wasn’t about what he wanted, he’d learned that early on, but it didn’t change his attitude.

The stillness in Boston unnerved him the night he finally decided to do his goddamned job and go looking for any trace of the thugs Kenway helped him with.  He was too nervous in the interim between jobs and there weren’t enough whores or pints to drown it out.  Something was wrong, the little voice that told him to quit while he was ahead (the one he always ignored) was whispering at him.

So out into the night he went.  The sky was clear and all traces of previous humidity from the day had left.  It sobered him pretty well, but not quite as well as the feeling of unease he got as he prowled the docks.  Probably looked like a shady character, he supposed, clothing always askew and face pinched into a look of concern as he slunk about like an alley cat.  Not that there was anyone to see him, he reminded himself as he checked over his shoulder again at the sound of steps that turned out to just be a rather large turkey.  There was something off in the air, though.

“Wassat, ya think?” He asked the poultry standing under the streetlamp.  It cocked its bald head at him, wattle swinging.  It gobbled at him and Thomas had to hold back a laugh lest he disturb the night further and end up in trouble.

Why was he thinking that way?

Something really did feel off tonight.  There was anticipation, no, that was the wrong word, but it felt similar.  Like the calm rumbling of thunder in the distance before lightning set your thatch roof ablaze.  Relaxing because you didn’t know for certain it’d be _your_ roof, but also frightening because you didn’t know for _certain_ it wouldn’t be your roof.

Thomas knelt down by the turkey, who took a step back and ruffled up its wing feathers.  “Ain’t the kinda night ta go wanderin’ off, eh?  Wouldn’ whistle righ’ now, neither.”  He couldn’t help a snicker escaping at that.

“No, I wouldn’t.” A low, distinctly masculine voice agreed from the alley ahead.

Thomas leapt to his feet, comforted by knowing he had his pistols on him at least but still on edge knowing whoever the voice belonged to had gotten the drop on him.  “An’ wha’s this ‘bout?”

The figure shifted but didn’t move from the shadows the alley offered, visible only as a wavering humanoid shadow.  He could just see the gleam of the whites of their eyes and teeth as they spoke.  “I am no thief, if that’s what you were asking.”

“Been ‘aving trouble with thieves, as late.  Hope ya don’ mind me bein’ a bit jumpy at some shadowy bloke agreein’ with me mum’s superstitions.”

“Pity.”  The man remained cloaked in shadow and didn’t speak for a while.  Thomas wondered briefly if they’d left, but he could still feel eyes on him.  Damn it, he shouldn’t have told Charlie to stay and drink with their friends when he went outside.  _“Loosen up a bit, make ya more enjoyable ta be stuck babysittin’,”_ he’d sniggered as he went downstairs, ignoring the man’s purpling face.  Damn it, damn it, damn it.

“Don’ need your pity, mate.”

A low _tsk_.  “I only meant empathy, friend.”

“’Friend’?  Well, call me a fool for forgettin’ we was friends!”  Thomas forced a laugh.  “Now let’s keep bein’ all friendly-like and ‘ave ya step out into the light, eh?  You an’ me an’ this ‘ere turkey, a buncha pals in a dark alley.”

Call him crazy, but Thomas swore he could feel the air temperature drop.  The feeling like lightning was about to strike him down was back, too.  Even the stupid turkey seemed to have decided it would be smartest to leave the area.

“I have had problems with thieves as well,” the stranger continued.  “Just the kind one would expect too, _guttershites_ and _rats_ that refuse to stay away…”  There was a definite edge to the man’s voice and he finally began to step closer.

Thomas’ eyes narrowed.  “Are ya insinuatin’ wot I think ya are, mate?”

“You would know if you were guilty.”

Had the sparkle of metal under the streetlamp not caught his eye Thomas guessed he’d be lucky he left that alley with more than just a slice up his entire damn collar.  As it was he jumped back just in time enough to escape the other man’s blade and hold him back from further attack by the back of his white hood.

Though his experience with them firsthand was limited Thomas had heard about this, about the Assassins going around with white hoods.

And never going anywhere alone.

He fired a shot at the man above him still struggling to jab at his throat, the close range sending an explosion of blood and cracked bone down onto Thomas’ chest from where the bullet blasted straight through the Assassin’s ribs.  Halfway deafened by the sound he nearly missed the yell from above, on the rooftops, and another gunshot.  Thankfully it missed him, but the ringing in his ear said not by much and likely only because it was dark and he was half-hidden under the dead Assassin.

Dimly, he was aware Kenway or Charles had to have heard, or a patrol would come around soon, but nothing yet.  Screaming for help was a little below him, too, and it might attract redcoats who would see his smoking pistol and blood-stained clothes and throw him in the clinker.  He’d wait and hope for the best.

With a mighty shove Thomas managed to get out from under the dead man, who had to have both height and plenty of weight on him when he was alive, in order to try and find the other white-hooded bastard.

It didn’t take long, now that he knew what he was looking for.  Levelling the other pistol on the figure up on the rooftops he fired a shot, striking somewhere in their leg—not a killing wound, but a crippling one, especially when they fell with a little less grace than they’d likely have hoped from their spot perched above the action.

Thomas jogged over to where they were still trying to get away, reloading as he did.  “Stop righ’ there,” he commanded, flintlock pointed more accurately at their head.  The other Assassin, clearly younger and in pain and afraid of the man who’d just committed murder ( _was that the first body he’d seen?  Thomas could remember his first still.  It always stuck with him.)_ stopped and stared at him wide-eyed.

“Good.  Now, I got some questions for ya—“

“Thomas!”  The voice of the Grandmaster echoed, authoritative and booming and… concerned?  “What in God’s name is going on here—“

“Found me our thieves,” the younger man replied, tightening his finger on the trigger of his pistol when the Assassin he had cornered made to move away again.

There was an unhappy huff from behind him and Thomas could imagine Kenway’s look of disapproval.  “So you killed them.”

“Only one!  An’ he came at me first!”  Thomas argued angrily, looking away from the Assassin only long enough to gesture to his split open sleeve, drenched in blood.  “Accused me of stealin’ from ‘em.  Figure we can bring this’un in for questionin’, yeah?”

“Yes,” Kenway’s voice was testy.  “The other would have been more useful, being a senior member.  But fine.”  The Grandmaster moved past Thomas and ruthlessly knocked out the shaking Assassin with the butt of his own pistol before turning his intense gaze on Thomas.  The younger man tried to swallow his nerves; those eyes spoke violence and anger but they were so deep and—something else, too. Something he didn’t want to really think on.  “Get to a doctor.”

“Yessir,” Thomas grumbled.

xXx

By the time Kenway and Charlie showed up again, Thomas’ arm had stopped stinging from where the doctor had stitched it up before putting it in a sling.  He looked up from his drink, grimacing each time his injured arm was jarred by the motion, but the alcohol slowly spreading through his system also helped bring the pain to the back of his mind.

It took a moment (he blamed the drink) to realize the Grandmaster looked troubled.  He wasn’t expecting that.  “Wot ‘appened in there?”

“Clean up the mess.  The body is taken care of.”  Kenway simply spoke over Thomas’ question.  The younger man’s brow furrowed unhappily—something was up and he wanted to know, now.   _He’d_ found the stupid Assassins, _he’d_ gotten hurt keeping them put until reinforcements arrived, _he_ had a right to know why Kenway just killed a suspect.  He wanted to know why and what was going on.

Things were changing and he had a goddamn right to know why, didn’t he?

Fuckin’ Charles Lee got to know there was a dead man and he wasn’t even part of the Order, yet.

Thomas crossed his arms as well as he was able, wincing slightly as he did.  “Wot ‘appened in there.”

Kenway turned his steel eyes on Thomas and the younger man could feel his balls trying to crawl up inside his body.  Those were eyes that had definitely killed and he wondered, briefly, if it wasn’t against the Orders’ rules if the Grandmaster wouldn’t just kill him, too.  “Thomas.”  The voice was barely more than a growl, made more fearsome by the blood still staining the older man’s glove.  “Go in there.  Clean up the mess.”

Thomas didn’t reply, a mix scared and still trying to remain defiant.  Still, he followed Kenway’s order and slunk into the room where their prisoner had been kept and he assumed interrogated before finally passing on into the next life.

The grim scene in the inn’s room told him he was correct.  While the blood was at least localized to one spot surrounding a chair at the edge of the room near the window, there was enough to paint a nice picture of a good interrogation.  The copper smell of blood and the fear-and-piss smell that had likely accompanied the moment of the hooded man’s untimely death did nothing to Thomas anymore.  He’d seen worse, _smelled_ worse.  Death was a disgusting business.  Old age smelled like despair and rot, diseases each had their own septic scent, murder—the one he knew the best—smelled like piss and shit and whatever other bodily fluids were spilt before it all ended.  Blood didn’t bother him, either.  The only thing that bothered him was how brutal but… _contained_ Kenway kept it.  He was a vicious bastard in a fight and no doubt had held nothing back on the captured Assassin but there was not a single drop of blood on the sheets of the bed beside the chair.  In fact, when Thomas covered up the chair with his hand, the room looked remarkably pedestrian.

Thomas grimaced.  Well, at least it wasn’t too much to clean up, even if Kenway disturbed him at times with a heap of grudging respect.

Respect that was slowly growing less grudging, he realized.  He could appreciate a job well done, and a man who knew how to fight.  He liked watching Kenway move, seeming almost liquid at times while he took men down with his brand of brutality.  Charlie could wax poetic all he wanted about the Grandmaster’s fighting all the live-long day for all Thomas cared, he saw Kenway for what he was: a brawler.

Not that he had anything against it.  The brawling worked.  But there was no need for florid, embellished words or lyrical prose to describe a punch to the nards.  Hell, there wasn’t any place for them.

Room cleaned, it thankfully didn’t take long, Thomas all-but stomped out of the room and threw himself into a chair beside a distraught looking Willa and… even Kenway’s brow was pinched in concern.  Disturbing though the idea that Kenway, the strongest and most self-assured person Thomas had met as yet, was so concerned over whatever they’d gotten out of the Assassin, he was far more worried about Willa.  Willa had been his friend and more for much longer and he wasn’t about to let anything that scared her continue on.

Both immediately went silent when he sat down, looking over toward him.  “So _now_ will ya fuckin’ tell me wot ‘appened in there?”

Another glance went between the pair of them and Thomas got inexplicably angry.  If something was threatening Willa or even Kenway, who he had come to respect more and more, he should know.  He had a damned right, and was about to start off on them both about his right until Kenway sighed through his nose and closed his eyes.

“The Assassins think we stole their own research on the Precursors.”

“They ‘ave their own _wot_ now?”

“Not anymore.” Kenway said dismissively and Thomas realized he was being ignored and left out of the conversation.  He hated that.  Sure, he couldn’t talk big like the other members or have a vocabulary to rival fuckin’ Shakespeare, and no he’d never bothered with reading Shakespeare anyway.  But he was a Templar too, damn it all, and a member of the Inner Circle and he just brought down one Assassin and another in _single-handedly_.  Maybe he wasn’t smart as them, or rich as them, and yeah, he’d never hold the same sway they did.  Didn’t matter to him, so long as he got what little respect he deserved.

And in his over-tired, drunken, irritable-from-injury opinion, he deserved more respect than blatant dismissal by some London noble.

Obviously his displeasure showed on his face because now Kenway’s face had gone from passively ignoring him to mimicking his own features.  “Hickey.  Move on.  The issue is dealt with.”

“Obviously not,” he muttered.

Those steely eyes narrowed again.  “You have done your job.  Now go celebrate with liquor and whores as you always do and leave this be.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so!” Kenway snapped.  It was a little scary to see him flush red and glower but Thomas swallowed his fear easily under the indignant frustration.

“Why should I fuckin’ listen to _you_?”

A fist slammed on the table and Kenway stood, voice cracking slightly in his fury.  “I am the _Grandmaster_ , Thomas Hickey.  Due to your foolhardiness a man died tonight.  Now _get out_ until I call on you again.”

“Master Kenway,” Willa’s voice was soft, her rolling Irish brogue thicker when she spoke softly.  “If I could request you not take this out on my associate, he’s not meaning any harm,” her eyes turned to Thomas, beseeching him to just agree and back down, “he just needs rest and we can work everything out in the morning.”

Kenway remained stiff, eyes unmoving, and a tingle of fear began in Thomas’ belly again.  It reminded him of the time he’d been attacked by a dog as a child, the huge grey creature a solid, twitching mass with bared teeth and flexing toes as it growled at him—but that hadn’t been as scary as the eyes.  Locked onto their target, controlled, deep rage.

Thomas had to look away, nodding in agreement with what Willa said and cursing himself for backing down.  Thomas Hickey did not back down.  But he valued his life too much for this fight, especially because he didn’t really know why it was a fight in the first place.  He just wanted a straight fucking answer.

Whatever happened was enough to get the Grandmaster all riled, and Thomas wanted to know why.  Blackmail, maybe?  His curiosity wanted to get to the bottom of it, but grudgingly, so, so grudgingly, his respect for the Grandmaster and for Willa stopped all plots of digging deeper.

That wasn’t to say if he stumbled across more information by accident he wouldn’t look into it, though.  Oh, no.  If someone had blackmail on the impenetrable Haytham Edward Kenway he was going to get it and protect the man he owed his livelihood to’s back.  Definitely not because he had a curiosity to sate, no.  And not because he was beginning to think maybe the Grandmaster had something to hide.

Of _course_ not.

xXx

Arlette watched Thomas’ retreat to his room, finally relaxing, if only slightly, when he was out of view.

“This will blow over,” Willa said softly.  Arlette didn’t respond at all, still staring ahead.

“This _will not_ blow over.”

“Grandmaster, believe me when I say Thomas will let this go.  Like as not, he’ll forget it in a week.  And whether you can believe it or not right now, he acts out of concern.  I’ve never known him to be anything but loyal to those who have his back, or his pay.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Arlette ground out.  “They knew.”

Willa nodded.  “And no one else will—“

“Their entire Brotherhood could know.  If they’re talking to my people like they were tonight, I could have a coup on my hands—if I were discovered—“

“Might I remind you the Assassins tried to kill Thomas?” Willa asked.  “I doubt inciting a coup among the Order is their concern.”

Arlette sighed.  “I suppose you are right.  Again.”  She glanced over at the Irishwoman, who looked rather smug.  “Wipe that smirk off your face, this is serious.”

“Forgive me.”  The older woman did sober rather quickly though.  “Although, if they think we were stealing their research on the Precursors…”

“We have an unknown quantity to look out for, yes.  I can only hope neither party makes their move before we’ve found the site.”

“Agreed.”

xXx

Thomas was far from satisfied with the response of ‘I will tell you when I decide to’ he got the next morning from Kenway.  He wanted to know _now_.  When he said as much and threatened to look into it on his own anyway, considering he’d done just fine by himself before, he could’ve sworn the Grandmaster blanched.

Now, _that_ was not what he expected.  For some reason, guilt filled him to see that reaction.  Why would Kenway be so scared?  What did he have to hide?

It took time, not as much as was probably the norm, but Thomas was far from the norm and had accepted that, for him to decide he no longer cared if he knew Kenway’s secret but instead protect it, whatever it was, from those  who’d use it in whatever way the Grandmaster clearly feared.  With each passing mission, with each new addition to their Order, he grew to respect the man more and more and finally gave up on asking about the night with the Assassins altogether.

( _“I’m very sorry for how I acted that night.  It was… unbecoming for a Templar of my standing.”_ Kenway’d said.  _“Eh, it wasn’ nothin’.  Prolly deserved it, anyway.  Ya wouldn’ do anythin’ ta hurt us, you’re a good leader an’ all.”_ He’d replied like it didn’t please him to know he had the Grandmaster’s respect enough to apologize for what happened.)

There had been no more incidents and things were normal—well, as close to ‘normal’ as things got for Thomas Hickey.

Other than strange thoughts he never thought he’d have, of course.

At first it was innocent enough, just noticing the prick dressed well and kept himself cleaned up nicely for someone who spent most of his time killing.  Thomas supposed it was his noble upbringing.  He also wondered, sometimes aloud in drunken, slurred rambling while he tried to maintain his balance atop a barstool, if it was the noble upbringing that somehow kept his clothes nice and clean all the time.  Or did he have multiples of the same outfit?

_(Kenway had not been amused by that and told Thomas rather elegantly to kindly sod off, but he’d smirked as he said it and it made Thomas feel warm for some reason.)_

He’d wonder too about where Haytham went off to when he’d disappear for days on end on a mission, but it didn’t usually concern him too thoroughly.  He’d mostly just wait around for him to get back or to be sent on his own mission, rather content during the interim to just laze about.

_(Kenway no longer snapped at him like an angry animal, defended him even at times.)_

It was perfectly normal in his opinion to be curious.  And hey, if something looked nice, Thomas had no shame in admitting it.

Then it became more concerning.

Thomas’ eyes lingered a bit too long at the slope of his shoulders and the way the redcoat uniform matched the red ribbon he tied his hair back with.  He wondered what it felt like, glossy and always neatly bound, one night while he lay with his cheek pressed against the barroom table after their successful mission taking out Silas Thatcher.  He found himself worrying more frequently about where the Grandmaster was and if he was alright.

He wanted to be a better Templar and even a better person for the sake of getting the Grandmaster’s praise.

“Jesus, ‘m becomin’ Charlie,” he’d lamented to Willa one day, who merely smiled knowingly.

“There are worse things that could happen.”

“I don’ want a permanent stick up my arse,” he’d replied with a wrinkled nose.  “Fock it, I don’ want anythin’ up my arse.”

But his mind was a traitor and more of a bastard than he was and on more than one occasion had him stuck in fantasies both in his dreams and even during the day as he watched the Grandmaster ride or fight that said perhaps, just maybe, he might indeed want something up his arse.

All these thoughts he stuffed down before they could fully show themselves in his mind.  He refused to acknowledge them.  Thomas cared for women, only women.  Right?  Yes.

Regardless of what he told himself, when the Grandmaster smiled, the steel in his eyes melting just a bit at his antics after a completed mission, he found himself grinning even more foolishly as he tried to force his feet to cooperate, drunk as he was, to go over and talk to his friend, tell him to join the fun, until he blinked and the older man was gone.

He had to swallow disappointment even in his drunken state.  There was nothing for him over there with Kenway anyway.  He didn’t really drink, didn’t really join their fun anyhow.  He had nothing to be disappointed over for the man deciding to turn in for the night.

So why was he?

Thomas dared not even think on the question, drowning it with whiskey and a whore, her dark hair glossy and smoky eyes the color of gunmetal as she watched him with a minx’s smile.

He had no need for Kenway, not like this.  They were friends and that was all.  Right?  Of course.  Of course that’s all.  He had no reason for these distressing thoughts or dreams.  They had no place in his mind other than in a tiny little box he’d never, ever open or look through.  Thomas Hickey fancied women.  Everyone knew this.

He wasn’t jealous of the Native who had Kenway’s attention all the time.

He wasn’t concerned for the Grandmaster’s wellbeing, still.

He wasn’t anything more than a colleague and maybe friend, and he didn’t want anything more.

And that was final.

xXx

Within only a few months, Kenway was gone for good.  Run off with the Natives, claiming it was to learn more about the Precursor site.  He’d taken his supplies and left his Inner Circle to run on their own devices, kept mostly in line by Willa, being the senior member.

Thomas wasn’t alone, not at all.  New York was his home and was full of his buddies in the different gangs and underground guilds.  There was always beer and wenches, always a game to cheat winnings out of.  He had no shortage of work to do with the black market.  Correspondence with the other Templars was always limited for him but he even had that.

Except from Haytham Kenway.

For reasons he refused to acknowledge, it bothered him.  He tried sending letters to the frontier but so far no response had been made.  It… hurt.  Why did the Grandmaster leave hi—them?  Not him, he wasn’t feeling personally hurt, he was just annoyed the Grandmaster would neglect his duties so blatantly.  It wasn’t normal.  Thomas liked when things stayed the same, he liked normalcy, he liked having Haytham Kenway around.

He liked having Haytham Kenway around.

He missed the Grandmaster more and more as the days turned to weeks, more than the others and more than even close friends should.

He hadn’t really… he’d kept _those_ thoughts away.  He didn’t care, not like that.  No.

Something broke in him and the little box with all those thoughts broke open.  All the fantasies, the thoughts, the memories of the way he smiled just so, the way the planes of his body shifted as he moved and fought and the way he wanted to feel them shift under his hands, the desire to have him back because Thomas missed him and selfishly wanted him to return for the same reason.  It all came spilling out.  His mind spun and he tried to collect himself again— _he fancied women, only women, he didn’t want this or these thoughts—_

 _It just wasn’t possible.  It just wasn’t possible_.  That’s all Thomas could keep repeating to himself over and over again as he stumbled blindly through the rain that he already knew would turn into oppressive humid heat the next sunrise.

 _It just wasn’t possible_ , as he shouldered through the doors of his favorite inn and requested the services of the girl with her dark, glossy hair bound back so nicely, bright blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes, pale skin and full lips his to touch.

 _It just wasn’t possible_ , not when he pushed her frame so nicely against his, all her curves coming close to matching the edges of hard muscle.  Not when he kissed her neck and tore her bodice and whispered sweet nothings to her as she sighed and moaned in his ear while his lips moved down over her breasts.  Not when their hands wandered into explicit places, not when he pushed his fingers inside of her and felt her familiarly wet and wanting, not when he carried her to the bed she now lay splayed so deliciously across.  It just wasn’t possible for a man who’d only ever desired women, who ravished one now, to feel like this.

But maybe he was wrong and it was possible.  Thomas was a fool, a moron, something ol’ Charlie liked to remind him of daily.  He could be wrong.

There was a tiny voice whispering dirtily to him it _was_ possible; as he imagined Kenway’s calloused hands gripping his shoulders, the moans from his whore deepening to the growls and groans he imagined the Grandmaster allowing past his ironclad control, how he replaced the woman’s soft curves with muscle trained by years of hard work in his mind, how he craved kissing lips that didn’t part so easily for him, the glint of steel and amusement in his eyes and smile.  It was entirely possible he fancied… _no, no it wasn’t_.  And even if it was, it was shameful to have the affections of another man.

 _Maybe it was possible_.

And try as he might to bury that voice in the keening woman beneath him, to just focus on her and bringing them both to completion, he just couldn’t.

Thomas Hickey had many reasons he ought to be hanged—he never assumed sodomy would be on the list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a ton to say here other than I hope you enjoyed it. We will be returning to your usual dose of Arlette in the next chapter. This should really be the end of the background information chapters, thanks to everyone who's put up with it so far! You guys are really the best. All my love.


	4. New Beginnings : Part III

“Not really leavin’, are ya?”  Arlette turned slightly to look at Thomas from over her shoulder, the man accompanied by Charles.  Well, it seemed the only way to get them to work together by choice was if they were worried she was abandoning them.  Although, ‘working together’ was probably the wrong way of phrasing it.  They weren’t exactly following her as Templars ought, more trailing after her through the marketplace dejectedly.  She’d _seen_ them leave moments after her.

“It will be much easier to learn about the Precursor site if I am within only a few minutes’ ride of it,” she replied, voice kept low in case anyone might overheard them.  Charles didn’t look happy about her decision to wait in the frontier for the expert Reginald was sending over but had been willing to understand.  It was Thomas, of all people, who seemed the most unwilling to accept the reality of the situation or respect the Grandmaster’s choice.  He’d been rather vocal in arguing against it—they’d found the place, that was all they had to do.

In spite of herself a slight of amusement spread in her.  Doing the bare minimum required and being happy with it, that sounded _exactly_ like Thomas.

She just hadn’t expected him to be so distraught by her leaving.  Sure, they’d gotten closer.  He’d grown on her as Willa had promised he would, and the standoffish boy she’d met in the cornfield more than a year past, now, was all but gone from their interactions.

She’d even asked Willa if she understood it.  The older woman had responded with the same amount of surprise—so long as he was getting paid and remained in one piece, Thomas had never cared much what the others were up to.  He understood constant movement and flow of resources and people, especially when their numbers were so low, even if she admitted he’d shown a preference for consistency in his life.  Arlette supposed it made sense from that angle, he was used to Grandmaster Haytham Kenway being around.  But he didn’t put up a fuss when Jonathan left, even though they seemed closer friends, and he certainly didn’t follow Willa around doggedly when she decided to return to Johnson Hall to work at home with her husband and children near.

“Why not wait for the man Grandmaster Birch has sent for?” Charles interjected.  “It will be much simpler for everyone involved if you can merely meet him here at the port rather than journey from the middle of nowhere, avoiding savages and—“

“I’ve made my decision,” Arlette interjected, lancing Charles with a glare that said she’d not tolerate any more dissent about her choice, especially not if it was racially charged.  He balked at first, the proper response to angering his Grandmaster Kenway, before eyes narrowed slightly.  Blast it all.  He didn’t know about her double life but he and everyone else did know about Ziio; perhaps she hadn’t been as subtle as she’d thought and now he suspected Haytham of sodomy, or perhaps he believed she had some ulterior motive for getting away from her fellow Templars…

No, Charles would never think such a thing.  She knew that.  Likely he was just expressing further upset with the company she kept.  He had not exactly been quiet about mistrusting and disliking Ziio and his allies.  She supposed she ought to be thankful Charles at least held his tongue when around Ziio, or surely their alliance would’ve ended abruptly given how lowly her underling thought of the Iroquois, regardless of whether or not the Kanien’kehá:ka man had feelings for her.

That didn’t excuse Charles’ or Thomas’ behavior now, though.

Thomas had gone very quiet, though he hadn’t balked at the glower fixed upon him and Charles both.  If anything, he had that petulant look in his eyes again, though it was more a sulk than a challenge, as it had been when they first met.  “Really gon’ leave, ‘en?”  He muttered, hands stuffed into his pockets and shoulders squared.

Arlette almost felt bad as she nodded but refused to let it show or affect her decision.  She was Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite, damn it.  She had worked hard, and now that she’d found some small bit of happiness in an otherwise painful life, as much as she enjoyed her brothers—most of the time—she was not about to let that joy just leave her without any chance of holding onto it.

Perhaps she was acting childishly and dreaming too far, but even if what she had found with Ziio didn’t last at least she could claim she had it.  She’d had love without boundaries, with no walls to keep the other at bay, she’d had someone she could bare herself to without judgment.  Could she truly say that about any of her comrades?

No, she couldn’t.  She never had.  And maybe, just maybe, this infatuation—this love—for Ziio would let her build her own life.  A happy, honest one.

A small half-smile, and she clasped her hands behind her back.  Not as guarded as Haytham usually had to be, but then again these were her friends and had come to know some relaxation in their Grandmaster.  “Chins up, lads.  It’s not as if we will never see each other again.”

The pair nodded, Charles dragging his feet as he turned back to the Green Dragon.  Thomas stayed put a while longer before leaving as well, shoving past Arlette and drowning in the crowd.  The Grandmaster frowned after him.  He knew she might be lying.  Thomas had been observant, always, even if he didn’t usually have the mind to put all his knowledge together.  He knew this was more complicated than she let on

 _Let him know.  It’s not as though it changes anything_.  Arlette huffed and finished her business in the market quickly.  She was burning daylight, precious time to return to the frontier.

To return to Ziio.

xXx

The frontier had slowly begun to slip from the grip of the miserably hot summer and into autumn, the leaves beginning to turn in higher hills.  Within the valley, it remained too warm for Arlette’s liking as she hiked through the underbrush, but she was not about to complain.  Not when the person she’d been hoping to find stepped out through the dense green foliage, startling her horse slightly but otherwise barely affecting the area.

She really ought to ask where Ziio learned to disappear like that.

“I was not expecting to see you so soon again,” admitted the Mohawk man.

Arlette shrugged, her tricorne off for once and face less guarded against discovery.  Flinty blue eyes turned back to him, a hint of a smile in them despite her expression remaining fairly impassive.  “I… well, I thought it would be best for my work to stay closer to the Precursor site.  If I am allowed, of course.”

The stupid, attractive, roguish twinkle was back in the man’s eyes.  “You missed me.”

“Well, yes, that too,” the Templar admitted, looking away and feeling her ears burn.  She sort of wished she was wearing her hat so she had something to hide behind.  She should’ve known by now Ziio would know better.  “I do need to study the site as well, however, I was not lying.”

“Mm.”  Ziio stepped closer, holding his hand out to the horse’s muzzle and allowing him to lip at his palm in the hopes of a treat before giving up and allowing him to stroke its long, grey face.  They stood in relative silence for a few beats, Ziio appearing calm and content, if not for the tense jaw.  “The rest of my tribe, they will not be as understanding of you staying.  Especially not so close to that place.  Like I told you, it is very sacred and…”  He sighed.  “My clan stays in the valley to avoid the colonists as much as possible.  A white man, which is how they know you, poking around a sacred place may end with an arrow through your skull.”

“I somehow expected something to that affect.”

The horse snorted and tossed his head, nosing at Ziio’s clothing insistently.  Arlette bit the inside of her cheek against a smile; the stallion had learned where she kept his treats in her clothes and apparently thought everyone did the same.  She reached into a pocket and offered Ziio a handful of oats, even though watching the man try to push back against the spirited horse’s face to no avail was rather entertaining.  “Something tells me that knowledge will deter you no more than I could your beast of a horse.”

Said horse snorted happily in reply, a few oats falling from his dark muzzle.  Arlette actually laughed at the entire scene.  “No.  I came this far already.”

“You did.”

“And, well—I did miss you.  The cave means more to me than just a… job.”  Did the Precursors fascinate her?  Yes.  She was not as obsessed as Reginald had become but they did hold an inescapable allure.

But she was much more interested in Ziio, in stealing a few more hours away with him.  He was special in a way no man had been before.  He was interested in her as she was in him, had—well.  He knew more about her, of her, than anyone before.  Clearly it meant something to them both if they were returning to the place _it_ occurred.

Ziio didn’t reply verbally but Arlette felt by now she could read the man well enough to see he felt similarly, even if he had more reservations about having her here.  Perhaps she’d been a little overzealous… the reunion in her mind had gone much differently.  She didn’t expect to be welcomed into his village with open arms, no, she was hardly so naïve.  But, well, she’d expected a bit of excitement from him, maybe even admittance he missed her and wanted her, some sort of sweet, forbidden moment between them.  Too caught up in her girlish fantasies, apparently, she hadn’t bothered to wonder if maybe Ziio had someone else or if he even wanted her to return to him at all.

Just as she was about to ask, a cold knot of dread at the answer in her gut, he cut her off.  “I am glad to see you again,” he murmured, and she could almost catch a dark blush creeping up his neck and cheekbones.

Arlette found herself smiling in spite of her efforts and reached the hand that wasn’t holding her horse’s reins to entwine their fingers.  She’d never been so bold before and felt almost giddy feeling his warm palm against hers, even more so when he didn’t pull away.  “I am glad I found you without having to chase you down through the trees,” she joked, a soft giggle bubbling past her lips and warbling the words.  A smirk tugged at Ziio’s full lips and he shrugged.

“You brought it on yourself.”

“I tried to make it clear I was no threat,” Arlette argued.

“Oh yes, a heavily armed Assassin coming at me out of nowhere could never possibly be perceived as a threat.”

The knot of dread was back in her stomach despite his dry, joking tone and Arlette had to work hard to steel herself.  It was just a word, one that would describe her job quite well, but she could _hear_ the emphasis in Ziio’s voice.

He had it wrong.

It was okay, though.  She lived a lie every day of her life already, what was one more?  She could just say yes.  She had Assassin blood, she had been trained to hunt Assassins using their own techniques, she could pretend in front of Ziio.  He must have thought this whole time she was an Assassin, her and the others, and trusted her because of that.  Which meant there was an Assassin hold here in the Colonies.  Which meant nothing good for her or her men—she’d have to send them a message…

 _Damn this all_.  Could she not have one thing that was not tainted by this life she led?  Could Arlette not have this—whatever it was—between her and Ziio?

“Is everything alright?”

Arlette’s head snapped up, startling her stallion once more into throwing his head and pulling at the reins.  She hushed him with a hand on his neck, ignoring the spirited horse’s grunts of anxiety.  “Yes.  I was just wondering where I go from here.”  She forced herself to meet Ziio’s eyes, hazel depths nigh unreadable even to her.  “Where _we_ go.”

“’We’?”

“I had assumed there was a ‘we’,” Arlette tried not to snap.  He just said he missed her!  And then dropped something between them, she supposed.  Could he tell she was keeping secrets, lying to him, or was he concerned?  She couldn’t tell, honestly.

Curse her maiden heart, blinding her.

Ziio sighed noisily through his nose.  “Like I said.  My village will not welcome you into our lands, regardless of how you helped us.”  He looked away, nearly bashful.  “My—the clan mother does not know about us, or that I showed you the cave.  Staying with them is not an option for you, but I cannot just leave them, either.  These are complicated times.”

“And this is a complicated relationship,” Arlette murmured unhappily.  He was right.  She never expected this to be easy, she was not that foolish and no longer a child.  Inexperienced in the world of romance she might be, she was past her thirtieth year and knew better than to hope love and good intention would conquer all.  Ziio merely nodded, as if he could read her mind.  A soft sigh escaped her.  Was it foolish to come here at all?  She wanted so desperately to believe it wasn’t.

A calloused yet gentle hand took the reins from her, lingering a moment too long on her hand but not so long anyone but them could call it intimate.  “I can show you how to build a house the way I did.  We can stay there for the rest of the summer.  When winter comes… other arrangements may need to be made.”

“You would do that?”  Arlette was more than slightly taken aback by his offer, but found herself smiling.  A home for the pair of them, how sweet.  Even if Ziio was not always there and it was only temporary, it was better than anything she’d hoped for.

The Mohawk man inclined his head and shrugged, beginning to lead Arlette’s stallion and, by extension, Arlette herself further along the game trail she had been following.  They traveled in a surprisingly comfortable silence before Ziio broke it.  “I think it best if you stay near the game trail.  It will be easier for you to get supplies if you need them if you stay on a trade route.”

 _Ever pragmatic_ , Arlette thought as she bit her cheek against a smile.  “You think me so incapable?  I brought supplies.”

“Do you know how to hunt?”  Ziio replied coolly.

“Well, no.”

“Exactly.”

Arlette scowled.  “I said I brought supplies,” she argued again.  It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how to survive on her own, she’d camped on her missions plenty of times.

Ziio raised an eyebrow at her, glancing toward the saddlebags on her roan stallion’s back and then back to her.  “Yes, I am _sure_ those will last you the rest of summer and autumn.”  Just as Arlette was about to protest, mouth open and ready to give the man a good dressing-down, he continued.  “I would teach you to set some traps, and try to show you which plants are poison and which are not, though I am… not as versed in such knowledge.  The clan mother knows much more, I may ask her.”

Mouth closing with an audible snap, Arlette swallowed any argument in her own defense she may have had.  There were times she wished Ziio would be more direct when it came to things like this—complicated emotions of attraction and tenderness—but she was just as bad most of the time.  Roundabout though it may have been, it was an agreement and perhaps even request to spend more time together.  “I… would not mind learning, if I was learning from you.”

She could just barely see his lips quirk upward from over his shoulder.

xXx

Slowly the reds and yellows worn by the trees at higher altitudes reached the valley.  It was beautiful, in its own way.  The trees looked as though someone had set the leaves ablaze as they slowly shed their foliage.  It wasn’t something Arlette had seen, really, or paid attention to at least.  But here, it felt like time stopped for her and Ziio, like she had all the time in the world, even if it was borrowed— _stolen_ , more like.  And yet that knowledge made the moments spent together, hunting, playing in the trees like children, whispering stories in the night, making love, all the sweeter.

She tried to ignore the oncoming signs of winter, the sign things would change, until they were literally on her doorstep.

The first time Arlette woke to frost outside the lodge she’d built with Ziio’s help it had been wrapped in his arms again, meat still smoking on her stone ‘hearth’.  He stirred when she shifted but didn’t make any comment or sign he’d woken as well.  Carefully she reached for her cloak blindly, the blanket raising and causing gooseflesh to erupt across her nude body as she did.  This time Ziio did mumble something and drag her back under the pelts and blankets they’d piled haphazardly on top of themselves after their— _ahem_ —activities the prior night.

“Where are you going?” The Mohawk man asked sleepily, raising himself up on one elbow to watch Arlette try to gather her clothes and remain under the blankets at the same time.

Tugging on a stocking she replied after yawning.  “I wanted to check the snares and make breakfast.”

“You could wait until the sun is up.”

“I was intending to get it done before _you_ were up.”  Arlette smiled to herself as he groaned and burrowed under the blankets again.  He had a tendency to do this, she’d noticed.  Complain heavily about being awake, but within the next quarter of an hour he’d be as awake as she was now.

Sure enough Ziio joined her outside soon after she’d finished feeding her stallion.  He still looked sleepy, though.  “Did I tire you out last night?”  She teased, though she guessed it would have more of the desired, vixen-like affect if she didn’t stumble over the words or turn bright pink as she said them.

The Mohawk man humored her and smirked.  “Maybe a little.  Perhaps I will have you do all the work tonight.”

If she wasn’t already blushing, Arlette certainly would have been after he said _that_.  Goodness.  _Mind out of the gutter, silly girl_.

Arlette cleared her throat and tried to formulate a reply that wouldn’t utterly humiliate her but before she could get any words out, a sweet kiss was placed over her slightly-chapped lips and a firm hand was warm where it gripped her waist.  But before she could get too relaxed into the contact, it broke.  “I will go check the snares in the woods,” Ziio told her softly.  “You can check the ones along the river, we will meet here again for breakfast.”

Arlette couldn’t smother a smile.  “Should I bring a net and try to catch fish?”

Ziio’s guilty look answered the question perfectly; it was hard, _so_ hard, to stifle laughter at his expense.  Despite her dislike of the dish herself, she’d made him her best estimation of kippers to go with what was left of her biscuits to try and share some English culture with her lover, considering how much of his own he had already shared with her.  To her surprise he’d liked the meal quite a bit, even stealing from her plate when she decided she was not remotely interested in the kippers or second half of her hard biscuit.  “I take that as a yes?”

“If there are any to be found,” Ziio replied smoothly, though she could sense the appreciation by now.  And excited anticipation, if the slight spring in his step gave anything away.

As she walked to the game trail and along the snares she and Ziio reset every few days, though, Arlette began to share Ziio’s quiet enthusiasm about the stupid little fishes.  Her brow knit in confused thought as she untied an unlucky hare from a snare.  She _hated_ kippers.  Ever since she was a child.   Oh, sure, she had been a fairly picky child when it came to the foods she’d eat, but she hated kippers with a particular passion.  It was fiery, all-consuming, and she was still convinced the cook kept making them near daily just so she and the maids could have a giggle about Arlette’s horrified expressions.

Not that she blamed them, now, but she was still fairly certain it was the reason.

Whether it was good luck or a terrible dismay, Arlette did come back with enough stupid little fishes to make a nice breakfast of kippers and some form of bread and jam and perhaps she should trade some of the rabbit pelts for a chicken or two so she and Ziio could have eggs with the fish—

No, this was _not_ happening.

“Is everything alright?”  Ziio asked, concern creeping into his voice after Arlette practically threw the plate of fish and toasted some-kind-of-baked-grain into his lap before sitting down across the small fire from him with a surly expression.

“Fine.”

There was a long beat of silence between the two, the Mohawk man’s face flickering between concern for his life and the desire to call her bluff, but he finally took a hint from Arlette and began to chew experimentally on his toasted… whatever.

Arlette continued to glare at the stupid little fish she really, _really_ wanted.

“You did not take any of the… ‘kippers’.”

“No.”

Ziio followed her eyes to his plate before standing and moving to her side.  “Did you want some—“

“No.”

“You caught and cooked too much for me.”

“Did I.”

“Unbelievable,” Ziio muttered before finally just scooping a few pieces of fish onto Arlette’s plate.  “Just eat the fish, maybe you will feel better.”

Doing something she never, ever, ever, did, Arlette admitted defeat and ate the fish like it was her last meal.  And that thought suddenly had her laughing and Ziio staring at her like maybe he should be concerned about eating his own meal.

“What is so funny?”

Choking back her giggles, Arlette answered.  “I just—I _hate_ kippers.  And, and, I was thinking I wanted them so badly and if that was my last meal ever, I mean yesterday I would have been disgusted by the mere thought!”  She started laughing again, certain it made no sense but continuing.  “I used to sneak the dog my kippers as a kid so my father wouldn’t lecture me on wasting good fish!  I despise them!  And I can’t cook them correctly anyway so these should be even worse than the ones I ate growing up and—and—it’s just funny to me,” Arlette awkwardly trailed off.

Ziio was still staring at her like he was concerned for her mental state but there was something else in his expression too.  “…We have not exactly been careful lately, have we?”

“Hmm?”

“I meant—with,” he gestured between them, only earning a confused cock of the head from Arlette, before sighing.  “With intimacy.”

  1.   “ _Oh_.”  No, they hadn’t.  “Are you saying I liked the stupid little fishes because I’m pregnant?”



“It was just a thought.”

Arlette suddenly felt very dizzy.  It would explain why she didn’t like eating in the morning recently, and she was at least one month late on her typically monthly bleeding.  Maybe Ziio was right.  She put a hand to her forehead, eyes wide.  “This… complicates things.”  In a good or bad way, she had yet to figure out.  Honestly, she was still trying to wrap her head around the idea she may have accidentally started a family with Ziio and that she’d found out because of _kippers._

“It does not have to,” Ziio said, drawing Arlette’s eyes up to his.

“Really?”

He nodded simply before pushing the rest of the fish to Arlette.  “You should finish these.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Between my computer breaking and then finals coming in like a wrecking ball this got a bit shoved to the side. And by a bit I mean over a month. Thanks to those who've stuck with me through the sudden hiatus!


	5. New Beginnings : Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that took forever, sorry guys. I'll try to update in a more timely manner in the future! Between final exams and starting work nearly full time I lost a month of time I should've been writing and updating. Woops. I hope this chapter sort of makes up for the wait?
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me :)

**Boston, March of 1756**

The winter was surprisingly harsh that year, clinging stubbornly to the northern colonies well into the spring months.  Thomas had lost count of the amount of bodies he’d stumbled across in ditches and alleyways, dead from exposure even in the city.  It was a bit sobering to think even a few years that well could’ve been him.

Though the mornings he woke to frost on the windows or flurries of snow biting at his ankles, not unlike Charles’ stupid excuse of a dog, were becoming less common, he couldn’t stop himself wondering about how it was on the frontier.  Surely if it was this miserable in the city where the close proximity of the buildings blocked some of the wind and the worst of the snow, it had to be much worse where the only shelter was caves and trees.  Though Kenway had a good head on his shoulders, Thomas couldn’t help doubting he’d had much experience living on his own wits in the God-forsaken wilderness, and so (much to his humiliation and chagrin) he worried.  The though nearly made him scoff— _him_ , worried about another person’s stupid choices?  Fuck, Thomas didn’t even bother to worry about his _own_ stupid choices.

Unfortunately the problem of those thoughts remained.  Even after a year of minimal correspondence and not seeing hair nor hide of the Grandmaster.

Thomas cursed to himself at the fact, then again when he realized he’d walked straight past the Green Dragon and now had to go back three blocks facing into the wind.  Was he hexed?  He had to be.  Stupid superstitious nonsense, but it was the only logical explanation he could come up with for all this shite: the weather, how the Grandmaster just abandoned them, the—the damned _feelings_ he could grudgingly admit he _maybe_ had for the older man who wouldn’t ever notice him as more than an ally to talk to through Willa.

Technically he was here in Boston rather than in New York because of Kenway’s latest correspondence calling them all together, even though Willa had been the one to tell him.

_(Kenway wasn’t even here, wouldn’t be here for months.  There was just ‘classified information’ he’d passed on to Willa and Charlie, of all people, and he wanted them all to hear it now from his stand-in and the new guy.)_

Still fuming as he entered the Green Dragon and sat down at the usual place, Thomas blatantly ignored Willa’s concerned look.  He wanted to be back in New York, pretending he didn’t miss how things were last spring or that he specifically missed one person.  He heard a sigh that bordered on annoyed and felt a little bad—Willa didn’t really deserve his bad attitude about the situation, she didn’t really understand it anyway.  He didn’t even understand it, he only knew it bothered him.

“Thomas, a belligerent attitude is going to solve nothing,” Willa chided lightly.  It reminded him far too much of the tone he’d heard her take with her youngest children and suddenly Thomas felt considerably less bad about irritating her.  In fact it only added more fuel for his spite.

He responded by very maturely sinking down deeper into his chair and scowling in her general direction.

Another sigh, though Willa sounded less annoyed now and more put upon now.  “Thomas, _honestly_.”

Oh, two could play at this game.  “ _What_.”

“Thomas.”  Willa crossed her arms, looking very serious and Thomas had to resist the urge to laugh at the ridiculous situation considering he was still upset so instead he just stared directly at the wall in front of him as though it had personally offended him.

“ _Thomas Hickey._ ”  More frustrated silence passed between them.  “You’re not the only one who misses he—him.”  Thomas glanced over a bit at the slight stumble over Willa’s words.  That was weird.  She never stumbled over her words.  He was stopped from that train of thought at the next thing out of her mouth.  “He’s not just _your_ friend.”

Thomas wasn’t totally sure if Kenway would’ve called them friends or not but it did give him something to think about.  Did their Grandmaster ever consider them his friends?  Did he _still_ , after months of near silence?  Or was Willa just talking about herself?  He didn’t even realize the pair got on so well.  “I guess,” Thomas muttered after a moment.  Loathe as he was to admit it when he just wanted to be mad about the whole situation, Willa was probably right.  After all, it had been Charlie’s idea to go after the Grandmaster before he left them to go find whatever ( _whoever_ ) he was looking for in the frontier.  And Kenway trusted fucking Charles Lee more than the senior members of the Order, besides Willa.

For some reason he didn’t really want to think too hard about Thomas was really hurt by that.

He really only half-paid attention during the meeting, something about a specialist in matters concerning the Precursors coming to the colonies, blah blah.  It’s not as if this stuff mattered to Thomas, he wasn’t a believer in magic and such, not really, and truly didn’t care at all what happened with glowy shiny metal things unless he could make a good profit off of it.  Honestly the whole mission felt weird to him.  Since when did Templars prescribe to fantasy like this?  What were they really going to gain from some cave in the woods?

Even _if_ it allegedly held some ancient power, which sounded like claptrap to him, what were they really going to do with a _cave_ somewhere in the forest?  Threaten Assassins with it?  _“I know you have a fancy blade held to my throat, but don’t try anything I have a cave with unspeakable power a three days’ ride from here”_ sounded weak and insane.

When Thomas kind of looked up and paid attention to his fellows he noticed Willa giving him an odd look. He really hoped he hadn’t been saying any of that stuff aloud.  No, she probably just realized he wasn’t paying any attention, given that she looked slightly relieved and jerked her chin toward the head of the table, where Charles was going on about… something.

Something involving Kenway he realized, when he heard Charles say his first name so familiarly.

“It’s been nearly a year, after all.  I hardly understand why Haytham refuses to let us speak with him directly, face to face.” Charles was clearly concluding some long-winded… well, rant was the only word coming to Thomas’ mind.

Willa stepped in despite the muttered assent of a few gathered.  “If our Grandmaster wanted visitors, he would ask for them.”

Charles bristled and Thomas had the feeling there was about to be a coup.  Which would probably be entertaining if Charles wasn’t so prone to fits of temper and occasionally violence and Thomas wasn’t the nearest target for misplaced rage.  “What does he have to hide?”

“Perhaps the nature of this work is sensitive.  We are all his underlings, not his peers, _whether you like it or not_ ,” a very pointed look was sent Charles’ way, “and it is up to the Grandmaster’s discretion what to share with whom.  Grandmaster Kenway was sent here by another Grandmaster specifically to study the Precursor site, it is entirely possible he is only to report findings to that man.  We would just be in the way of their work.”

Charles did not take that well, his cheeks flushing with a dangerous mix of anger and embarrassment.  “But we don’t _know_ that, because he hasn’t told us a thing about what he is doing out there.  The Grandmaster has only communicated orders from afar on occasion, and much more has happened here since he left.  He knows nothing of what’s happening,” Charles seethed.

“Watch your tongue, lest it be mistaken you speak treason.”  Pitcairn spoke for the first time in the meeting, earning everyone’s full attention from the words’ slight warning tone, something surprising from the Scot’s generally friendly (or at least passive) demeanor.

Willa stood then.  “I say we adjourn for now before any real treason occurs.  And, Charles,” she fixed him with a dagger-like stare at odds with her polite smile as the others left.  “Pitcairn raises an excellent point, given how the Order deals with traitors.”

The general looked ready to explode but merely nodded stiffly before stalking off like a wet cat.  Thomas stood and made to follow the other man out before he felt Willa catch his wrist.  “Please, don’t do anything foolish,” she beseeched him tiredly.

“When do I do anythin’ else?”  Thomas shot back, though he rethought his initial plan of going after Charles when Willa turned a very, very tired gaze on him.

“Like I said, the Grandmaster is my friend.  As are you.  Charles is not thinking clearly and I worry it will cause more harm than good, even if he succeeds in getting Haytham back here.”

Thomas’ mouth screwed in confusion.  “Are you worried about _me_?”

“I’m worried about many things,” Willa admitted softly.  “But yes, I do worry you will end up in trouble or very hurt if you pursue the Grandmaster.”  _A bit late for that_ , Thomas thought, frustrated.  But the Irishwoman probably had a point and that was even more frustrating.  If Kenway was happy where he was and doing… whatever he was doing, did Thomas really have a place to tell him what to do?  And if he did so anyway, what would it mean for any relationship—no matter the kind—between them?

And he really, _really_ didn’t relish the thought of pissing the Grandmaster off.  In his limited experience with the man, not only was he scary when angry, but also potentially murderous.  Thomas could fight, sure, but did he stand a chance against that demon dressed up like a posh noble?

That was not a gamble he wanted to take.

“Maybe… I can talk some sense inta Charlie?”  Thomas tried, earning a sigh and bemused smile from Willa.

“The day you ‘talk sense’ will surely be the day judgment is upon us all,” she chuckled.  A half-smile tugged Thomas’ lips.  Valid point, he supposed.

xXx

**Boston, late May of 1756**

In early April, before the snow melted and despite continued protests from Willa and, surprisingly vehemently, Pitcairn, Charles left for the frontier.

He’d returned about a week prior, looking rather like a cat who’d found the cream, with one Haytham Kenway arriving a day later.  The last Thomas (or anyone else for that matter) had heard of him was the shouted dressing-down he’d given Charles that the entire block likely heard as well.  While Charles refused to explain what had brought it on, Pitcairn whispered a slurred rendition of what had happened after Thomas convinced him to go drinking together.

“He saunters up like he owns tha place, right?  And the smarmy bastard—he says, ‘isn’t it better being back here with civilized company?’” He explained, leaning in a bit closer than most chose to get to Thomas.  “And Kenway loses his temper faster than Charles can get the last word out, punches him, and yells ‘til he’s hoarse.”

Thomas snorted into his drink in response.  “’Bout fockin’ time,” he muttered.  “Charlie’s ‘ad it comin’ for years.”

Pitcairn merely shrugged but based on the grin he was trying so hard to hide by taking another draught from his tankard, Thomas had a feeling he agreed.

The point remained, though, that since that incident Kenway had refused to be in the same space as Charles.  He never stooped so low as to throw another punch or even a withering glare, but he’d politely excuse himself and disappear for hours if not the rest of the day.  It was making meetings tense to say the least.  Willa conducted them to the best of her abilities given the uncomfortable atmosphere, but no one accomplished anything when they gathered.  Too much concerned speculation over Kenway’s painfully cold attitude, not nearly enough energy directed toward the resurgence of Assassins in New York.

Thomas had nearly asked to just be sent back to New York.  For once, actually _working_ sounded better than slacking off around the Green Dragon, given that he wasn’t really enjoying himself anyway.  Beyond that, he was more than a bit concerned about his numerous connections being either dead or turned toward the side of the Assassins.  The various gangs he had under his thumb should’ve been able to defend against any crops of Assassins in the area, which meant either they left New York, were no longer his, or dead as proof there were actual, organized groups of the hooded bastards in his territory.

A sinking feeling in his gut told him his hold of New York was seriously weakened, and at the rate things were going with the Inner Circle, he doubted he’d get it back.

According to lower ranking members of the Order, there were a few small groups of Assassins toeing their lines of influence in Boston as well, but nothing serious yet.  Thomas dimly remembered Willa making some mention that Boston had been a stalemate for years before Kenway showed up and turned the tide a bit, but really all they’d accomplished was taking a few more neighborhoods for the Templars before it just returned to the way it was—both Templars and Assassins pushing against the borders of their territories and failing to make any real gains.  New York, on the other hand, had been theirs for decades, long enough that Assassins hadn’t really tried to take it… until no one was protecting it.  The gangs weren’t made up of Templars, the black market really belonged to no one.  The few Templars Thomas had instituted were about as bad of scoundrels as he was, only with less loyalty to their boss.  If they didn’t defect right away, they were most likely dead at the blades of Assassins.

Which was why, against his better judgment, Thomas was standing outside the door to Haytham Kenway’s room.

He wasn’t poised to knock or frozen in fear or anything else stupid like that, he was just standing there, idly wondering if it was even worth it to bother Kenway.  He’d been holed up here most days, and, to Thomas’ knowledge, refused company.  Not that he was there for _that_ reason ( _though it would be nice,_ the traitorous part of his mind whispered).  He just needed the Grandmaster to sign off on him leaving for New York.

Part of him hoped the man would refuse, out of an absurd idea he’d want friends near and that he’d even consider Thomas a friend, while the rest of him just wanted to be dismissed until Kenway got out of whatever this was and Charles got his shite together and stopped picking fights with everyone.  Even Willa was impossible, so focused on keeping the peace that she was inadvertently creating more tension with her frustration and exhaustion.

Finally, he knocked rapidly four times before he could think too hard about the repercussions.

There was no answer for a while, but the Irishman could hear rustling behind the door that gave Kenway away.  Thomas knocked again, much more deliberately, earning a muffled ‘go away, Charles’.

“’S not Charlie,” Thomas replied.

“The door is closed _for a reason_.”

Were it any other time Thomas would make a jab about the sort of things, and people, one would do behind closed doors in an inn, but he valued his life and unbroken nose too much.  “The damn door can go back to being closed in a minute.”  No reply.  “Or it can _stay_ closed for all I care, I need’ta get your blessin’ before I go back ta New York.”

Apparently that still wasn’t enough to get Kenway’s full attention, which stung a little.  “C’mon, you always were the one doin’ things like huntin’ Assassins and—bloody ‘ell, are you just going to sulk in there forever?  Or just until Charlie dies, ‘cause I could arrange that.”

“No need for dire action.”  The tone was dry and tired, but Thomas swore he could hear a smile in it.  He found the corner of his mouth twitching upward at that, slowly spreading as he bowed his head.  Even if he was making it up, it did warm him to even think he could make Kenway smile or amuse him at all, given his sour attitude of late.

“You’re welcome to leave.”

That wasn’t where Thomas was expecting that to go, not so suddenly anyways.

“Wot’s it?”

An annoyed sigh.  Why did everyone react to him that way?  He wasn’t a child.  Sure, he was younger than everyone here besides Church, but he didn’t get sighed at.  “Go to New York whenever you like.  I won’t keep you here.”

“You could,” Thomas offered, feeling somewhat sick from how quickly he was being dismissed.

“I will not, though.”

_Why not, though?  Are you done with the rest of us?_   “I—sure.”  Of course Kenway wouldn’t, he didn’t want anything to do with any of them, not even Willa.  Speaking of…

“’Ey, gonna ask a favor.  Be nicer ta Willa, she’s doin’ her best.  You shouldn’t worry a lady like that.”  No answer again, Thomas took that as his cue to get lost before he pissed the Grandmaster off.  Even if the guy was littler than him, he packed a punch and so far Thomas hadn’t been on his bad side.  He’d like to keep that streak going.  So, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat and shrugged.  “I’ll try an’ remember ta write when I hit New York.”

xXx

Thomas doubted he’d ever been so happy to see New York.  It was an ugly city, mostly because he intimately knew her underbelly and inner workings, but it was his city.  He hadn’t realized how homesick he actually was until he was back again.

Although, frustratingly enough, now that he was in New York he wanted to be back in Boston.  There really wasn’t anything for him here, he had only come to get away from the tension in the Inner Circle.  And, well, he’d sort of thought Kenway would be more invested in what was happening in New York if even _Thomas_ was concerned.  He was famous for not giving two shits about this sort of thing, the whole war between Templars and Assassins and whatnot, unless he was paid for it.  Sure, he had no doubt he’d get paid, and probably well, but that wasn’t why he was here.

He almost stopped in his tracks at that line of thought.  What, was he developing actual _morals_ now?  A work ethic?  Terrifying.

He’d just get settled in and prepare to start poking around to figure out just how much of his network was gone, who he could trust, and where he’d be killed just for showing up.

Or so he thought.  Barely a day since Thomas had rode in on his temperamental mare and already a child had chased him down.

He really did feel badly for kids on the street, especially ones this young, and often humored them even if he couldn’t do anything else.  “Don’t got any money,” he warned.

“I do,” the kid boasted.  “I got paid three pence to find you!”  The kid reached into the waistband of his trousers to hand over a folded and creased piece of paper.  Thomas hesitated to take it.

“By who?”

“Dunno,” the kid shrugged, still holding out the paper.  “Just said to find a guy with a red horse and brown coat.  Are you gonna take it?”

Thomas took the paper slowly, still not fully trusting of this situation.  “Thanks,” he muttered.  “Careful what strangers ya talk to, hear me?”

The boy nodded.  “He was a nice stranger though,” he said, and then reached into his shoe to show off the coins he’d been given before running off to a small group of grubby kids who looked like they could be his siblings.

_If some shithead Assassin got this little family involved in whatever’s happening here, I’m going to kill them.  After I piss on everything they hold dear._

Pretending to be positively enthralled by a baker’s wares, Thomas watched the kids from the corner of his eye as he turned the paper this way and that to discern who it was from.  He couldn’t tell at first glance, and wouldn’t put it past Assassins to send a messenger with a poisoned letter.  The kid seemed fine, though, so he doubted contact poison.  Finally he wandered off into an alcove to unfold the piece of parchment, which quickly proved to be a letter.

_North Dutch church 10 tonight._

_Avoiding east village, white caps_

Thomas furrowed his brow, trying to think of who it could be.  The church was right over an underground tunnel, one of those he frequently used to get around with the smugglers.  Generally they’d kept from the East Village area, no reason to jeopardize themselves by going that far from their usual hideouts.  East Village was too open, the buildings too far apart.  Thomas had talked with one of his contacts, Walter Davies, about setting up a storehouse there, considering he lived in the nicer area of East Village and his smuggling ring operated too far away to keep from raising suspicion when he left to meet with them—

“Next time sign ya name or somethin’,” Thomas called, raising his lantern in salute to the blond-haired man.  Davies was making too much effort trying to look at ease with the tunnels, instead just looking somewhat constipated.  Right, _that_ was the other reason he wanted a storehouse in East Village: Davies got spooked being underground.  “Wot’s it you wanted?”

“There’s Assassins in East Village,” Davies started.

“Yeah, there’s Assassins everywhere accordin’ to the others.”

“No, there’s _Assassins in East Village_.  Real, organized groups, I think they’re looking for something.”

Davies’ frustrated look did spark Thomas’ curiosity.  Davies was used to a certain standard of living and had looked down on Thomas and his wandering gangs until it had come to light the younger man ranked significantly higher among the Order than Davies did.  Then he’d been much more obliging of Thomas’ poking about in smuggling rings he’d previously dominated.  Was he frustrated because there were killer thugs in his territory, a grim reminder of what exactly Davies had signed on for?  Or was something else going on?

The blond man apparently took Thomas’ silence as a sign to continue.  “I can’t tell what they’d be looking for.  I thought it was me at first, but they’ve made no moves toward me or anyone I know.  None of my assets are gone, I’ve only lost a few of my men.”  He crossed his arms, staring at the wall.  “There has been nothing like what you told the rest of us to watch for, no mysterious objects or strange happenings.  I haven’t the slightest what they’re doing.”

“Weird,” Thomas agreed.  He’d have to let Kenway know that.  “Why’s everyone so quiet?”

“Too many Assassins in New York.  They’re not killing yet but we all worry.  They have officials under their thumbs and keep an eye on any trade or post into or out of the city.”

“Bastards.”

“Preaching to the choir, I’m afraid.”

Thomas leaned against the damp wall, shivering slightly.  It was still cold down here this time of year and he was not enjoying himself.  “Wot’s our next move, ‘en?”

“Unless you have an Assassin hunter up your sleeve, nothing.”

Thomas grimaced.  Normally he’d say they did, but what with Kenway’s… whatever Kenway was working through, he didn’t seem eager or even willing to get involved.  “I might know a guy,” he said slowly.  “He might be busy, though.”  _Busy breaking Charlie’s nose and getting past his issues, I hope._

Davies shrugged, drawing his burgundy frock coat closer around his body.  “That’s plenty for me.”

A short nod and Thomas made to the leave and head back above ground.  “Hickey, there’s one other thing.”

_Of course there is_.  “Yeah?”

“We’ve lost three convoys, too.  Just food and furs, the most valuable thing on them was sugar, there were no sensitive documents or objects.  The one survivor said the attackers wore white hoods.”  Davies paused, clearly not wanting to say what he said next.  “We—you don’t think… they might be sending more?”

“More Assassins?”  That would explain raiding the convoys for supplies.  Thomas bit the inside of his cheek.  He was no good at strategy or planning or defense.  He was good at moving and attacking.  “I’ll get my gangs back together and send out scouts to the edges of town.”

Right after he contacted Kenway, of course.  As promised, but now mostly because he needed someone to come help him clean this up.  New York was slipping, and fast, and he couldn’t help but blame a portion of it on the Inner Circle’s inability to do much of anything but argue right now.

God, he sounded weird even to himself.  This whole ‘caring about the Order’s hold on a city’ thing was abnormal for him, and even less normal was him actually doing his paperwork or keeping reliable contact with his boss.

It was definitely unfamiliar for him to sit down in his rented room in front of a quill and parchment and try to think of what to say.  There was no good way to start this, he felt, and nothing sounded right when he drafted it in his head—either too dire or too nonchalant.  Nothing was happening in New York—yet—but they were losing a lot and people _had_ already died.

Finally he just started writing with a huff of annoyance.  He’d rewrite it coded once he got the words out.

_New York is still under our control, technically.  Assassins have made themselves at home and more may be moving in._

_So far no there are no casualties within the city’s walls, although three convoys were raided with only one survivor.  Davies assumes they were after supplies—food, furs—to feed and clothe another group coming in.  He’s probably right.  I’m posting scouts at the borders of the city to keep an eye on movement in and out of New York._

_Assassins already have eyes on motion in and out of the city, likely know I’m here.  They also have eyes on any post.  Our theory is they’re looking for something here, but nothing of interest has come to our attention.  I’ll keep watching for anything out of the ordinary._

_The local gangs and smugglers, even those with members from the Order, are nervous about getting killed.  We probably can’t expect much help until more Assassins are gone._

_Please send aid as early as possible before people actually start dying._

_-Thomas_

Arlette pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek.  Thomas had been gone a week, which meant New York could be in an even worse place than it was when he arrived.  Or nothing could have changed.  With the limited contact they had with the members of the Order stationed there, it was very unclear what the situation was really like.

And Thomas had never been great at communication.  Some things never changed.

The small smile that crossed her face knowing that fact slowly changed and she frowned deeply and leaned back in her chair.  If things were as Thomas thought and the Assassins really were looking for something in New York, she needed to be there.  She supposed she could send Charles… if she wasn’t still so upset with him.

The situation in New York, maintaining control of Boston, the Precursor site… Arlette really had no time to hold a grudge against her right hand, even if he was clearly out of line.

A horribly selfish part of her wanted to, though.  She desperately wanted to hold onto to her anger.  Even if it was misplaced (mostly) and covering a different emotion entirely.  She didn’t want to think about Ziio or how their relationship ended, not at all.  She’d rather forget the cave and the stolen months and child she knew only a few weeks before Ziio ran away with him after Charles’ untimely arrival.  She could only be thankful her son had been sleeping nestled away inside her and Ziio’s home, so her secret was still safe, if only barely.  Willa knew about the baby, but nothing more than Arlette’s sobbed ramblings about wanting to see him grow up and knowing she never could, now.

Would he know anything about her?

She shook her head fiercely, angry at her own weakness.  She had to compartmentalize and move on.  Wondering what might have been would do her no good and change nothing about the situation.  She had to think of other things as Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite.

Arlette continued shuffling through correspondence, skimming over names until one stopped her.  Rereading it several time before tearing open the wax seal, she still almost couldn’t believe it was really from Jim Holden.  Her oldest friend, contacting her at last—and her stomach dropped.

One sentence, written in his familiarly cramped but smooth handwriting:

_I’ve found your sister._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .............and the plot thickens. 
> 
> I have zero desire to rewrite everything that happens in the middle of Forsaken, so there will be a time jump of two to three years. If you're curious and haven't read it yet, please do. Jim Holden is a literal cinnamon roll.


	6. A Dark Horse : Part I

_…and at once, I knew: I was not magnificent_

**Virginia, 1761**

Arlette set down her quill and recapped the inkwell mechanically, not bothering with a blotting sheet as she shut her journal.  Four years ago she would have balked at the idea of letting the words smear or ruining the page opposite the one she’d written on.  But then again, four years ago, she’d had something to _say_.

It had been literal years since any entry was more than a paragraph in length, and most were a few sentences simply dictating the weather and how her garden and horses were.  These days everything was concise and to the point, whether it was correspondence with her sister and the Order or writing in the journal that had been her dearest friend and confidant until she’d met Jim Holden.  And now that unfortunate circumstances had taken Holden, her first and truest friend, from her, she’d hoped to come back to it and be able to find some peace.  Instead she found she felt no more emotion than the ink drying between the pages did.  Four years had passed in awful apathy, punctuated by sudden bursts of violence in the hopes of actually _feeling_ something, which failed miserably and brought on deeper fogs of depression.  Once she’d been passionate about things, about bringing peace and foolishly believing she could save the world just by believing she was capable of it, and now…

  1.   Now, she was the emotional equivalent of watching grass grow wrapped up in a body that felt too old and too heavy to be her own.



So much had changed and yet at the same time it felt as though nothing had changed for the Templar at all—loss wasn’t new to her, after all.  But first losing Ziio and their son, who she’d shoved into the corner of her mind to be forgotten, the wedge driven between her and the Inner Circle as a result, followed swiftly by finding out about Reginald’s betrayal and then Holden’s suicide, the absolute travesty she’d returned to in the Colonies what with talk of another war and the Assassins growing far too bold (yet she couldn’t find it in her to care), she was rather sick of everything.  If it all just stopped, she wouldn’t mind.

All she’d gained in four years was a reputation for ruthlessness, another Assassin hunter, and the horse she’d stolen so many years ago back in the Black Forest, now that Holden couldn’t—couldn’t care for the mare.

Finally, Arlette blinked away her thousand-yard stare, stood, and stretched.  She’d yet to check on the horses, and a pair of hunters passing by this morning had warned her about a storm coming in from the east.  Scratch wasn’t used to thunder even after four summers in the Colonies—the poor girl had barely survived the trip across the Atlantic from her nerves after an early autumn gale had blown over the ship.  While she was certainly better, her stall still had gouges from her kicking whenever an especially loud or bright storm came through.  Arlette tended to bring apples or carrots to both Scratch and Ash as an apology for the weather, as if she controlled it.

Unsurprisingly, Scratch was already pacing and counting in the split paddock while Ash flicked his ears about in response to the mare’s anxiety.

Arlette reached out a hand toward the roan stallion, whose attention was quickly drawn from Scratch’s distress to the human carrying carrots.  She smiled at his excitement and held out one of the treats to him, finally getting Scratch’s attention as she realized there was food.

“Pig,” she teased even as she patted the mare’s damp neck.  Ash had wandered off while Scratch continued to nibble at Arlette’s sleeves and push at her shoulders and chest trying to find more snacks.  She never seemed to outgrow the habit that earned her her name.  “I ought to ride you more, hmm?”  She asked softly, still stroking her horse’s neck and leaning across the fence to pat her shoulder.  “It’s not as if I have been doing anything better as of late.  But then I suppose I’d have to put on my coat and everything else in case I ran into anyone I know.”  Truthfully, Arlette was rather enjoying the ability to just go about her days in breeches and a waistcoat rather than the layers of clothes she normally wore to disguise her figure.

…Perhaps she’d make a better effort at tidying herself up though, if she could find the energy to care anymore, seeing as her fingers snagged in a tangle in her loose hair when she went to simply tuck an unruly strand behind her ear.  She couldn’t remember brushing it that morning, or the day before, for that matter.  How far had she sunk that she couldn’t even care about personal grooming?  It was one thing to ignore paperwork for the Order that just reminded her of the death that followed her like a shadow, another entirely to just _forget_ to _brush her damn hair_ when she wasn’t doing anything with her days, anyway.  It should not require that much energy to just take a comb to it, maybe tie it back so it would stop falling in her eyes.

As if the mare could read her mind, Scratch tossed her head and lipped at the long strands falling over Arlette’s shoulder.  The woman huffed and pushed the dark muzzle away with a gentle pat.  “I’ll be back,” she promised softly, waving at Ash as well even though his attention was firmly fixed on the patch of grass he was grazing.

Arlette nearly shook her head at the state of her home.  When she actually looked around and noticed her surroundings, the place looked barely lived in; not dusty or abandoned looking but sterile, too clean, nothing to show the personality of the person living in it other than a single book sitting on a coffee table and the sound of a handmaid in the kitchen.  Granted, she supposed it was a relatively new house.  But then again she’d been there more than three years, rarely leaving it now that her Order had all but decimated the colonial Assassins.  There had been no need, really.  She rarely had guests or any real reason to visit Boston or Philadelphia or even New York—well, that wasn’t true, she could, maybe _should_ , visit her brothers or at least Willa.  Even if it wasn’t for a social visit, the Grandmaster should have a better presence, right?  Right.

She was still unconvinced.

Even though the house was depressing, leaving was, too.  She really had nowhere to go.  A huge wall had built between them even before Arlette returned to Europe and the rift had only grown when she returned.  Whether it was the fault of the mental fog she’d stayed stuck in for months or her vicious spurts of temper or if they’d simply never been friends to start with, the fact remained that there was a nigh impossible rift to fix.  No one communicated her further than business anymore, not even Charles or Willa, who had been the most adamant at keeping her involved with their personal lives.  Not that she’d been much better, though.  Much like her diary entries, the letters she sent were short and bored her.

Suddenly livid at the waste her life had become, the Grandmaster stormed up the stairs to her bedroom, digging her nails into the pristine white bannister as if it had personally offended her.  Simply out of spite for the crisp, orderly room whose perfection dug into her, as if it could mock that she still breathed yet acted as though her life had already ended, she tugged the covers off her bed and threw several books onto the mattress, uncaring if the pages bent so long as something was _there_ , some twisted sign she existed in the space.

Damn it all, she was going riding, whether she wanted to or not.

Still fuming, Arlette dressed in her coat and riding boots with a sour expression.  None of this should be a _chore_.  Riding was its own kind of bliss, for her—the most freeing thing she could do aside from leaping from a building, knowing there was a chance her freefall would end in disaster but trusting her instincts and imagining that if she wanted she could just fly away.  Gravity meant nothing.  Death meant nothing.  She was Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite, damn it, and there was not a single thing that could hold her down, and if it tried, she’d just destroy it.

A bitter smile curled her lips, more an animal grimace than a human expression, but it was oddly freeing as well.  When had she smiled last?  It didn’t matter.  She was now, and she would continue to do so to spite the world so intent on taking everything good away from her.

After searching for a few minutes, Arlette found her hair ribbon, discarded on her desk beside some letters she’d yet to open.  The Templar paused just a moment to look at them.  She didn’t quite feel guilty she hadn’t read them yet, but they didn’t piss her off to see, either.  They annoyed her a bit, considering the top was from Charles given the handwriting ( _one more strike against her capabilities as Grandmaster, unable to even open a letter from her right hand_ ).

Tenderly she picked up the letter before scoffing and simply tossing it back down.  Charles could wait.  The Order could wait.  She’d put it on her to-do list, right after riding around her land.  Maybe she’d go into the nearby town, if only to say she’d gone.  Yes, that sounded good.

Apparently her slamming about and uncharacteristically loud footsteps had attracted the attention of her maid, who was now hovering uncomfortably at the doorway.  “Is everything alright, madame?”

Arlette nodded less stiffly than she had, of late.  “Yes, Caroline.  I will be out for a while with the horses, do whatever you like with your afternoon.”

“Ah—yes, thank you.”  With that Arlette left the room, resisting the urge to let the front door bang shut simply because of the joy such a purely disruptive sound created.

She felt better than she had in months!  Even the huge storm front threatening to block out the sun couldn’t make Arlette rethink her plan.  Well, that wasn’t entirely true—riding Scratch as she initially wanted to would only make the old mare anxious and she might get hurt.  Arlette was not about to put her through that.  Instead she brought the pacing horse into the stable, hushing her with a few strokes to her long face as the mare settled in.  Ash remained unperturbed by the weather or Arlette saddling him, only tossing his head in protest as she pulled the bridle over his face.  A small, genuine smile crossed her face at that.  At least some things never changed.  She could always count on her horses to cheer her, if only because of their unbreakable spirits.

The rain started not even five minutes after the pair had come to the main road, drenching both horse and rider as they loped easily along.  “Poor luck,” Arlette sighed, petting Ash’s soaked shoulder even as they continued at their brisk pace.  As if in agreement the stallion snorted, veering to the right and into tree cover.  _Smart_ , she couldn’t help thinking with pride as she slowed her mount to a trot.  Really the best thing to do would be to turn them both around before they got stuck in mud or an even heavier downpour.  She didn’t want to, though, she wanted to continue into town and take shelter there.  Her house had become a prison in her own mind, and due to her own fault, anywhere else was preferable to it.

Perhaps she’d stay the night at an inn.  Perhaps she’d be an utter fool and get herself drunk and go to bed with a handsome stranger.  Perhaps she’d ride out for New York in the morning, and maybe after continue east on to Boston.

No, she couldn’t.  There were things at home to attend to, whether she liked it or not.  And getting drunk and revealing her carefully guarded secret were not valid options.

…Staying at an inn was, though.

The steady beat of Ash’s hooves and the feeling of rain falling on her head and shoulders lulled Arlette into a sort of comfortable trance.  It was good for her to get out.  It had taken too long for her to do so, and honestly it still bothered her that it had and she’d just put her life on hold rather than even trying to move forward.  She had a feeling that once this mental break finished up things would go back to normal and the fog would settle over her again but for now she’d take the simple joy of riding.

Her mount snorted suddenly, snapping her from her reverie, and slowed to a stop, head raised and ears flicked forward.  The Templar followed the horse’s eyes, and seeing nothing she began to slowly urge him forward while looking about her surroundings slowly.  No need to attract attention if it was anything other than a fox in the brush by appearing too attentive to the surrounding trees.  Ash remained on edge, chewing his bit and swishing his wet tail, and as such Arlette did, too, watching out of the corners of her eyes for…

There was absolutely nothing.  She even switched to her second sight, straining her senses nearly to the point of giving herself a headache, desperately trying to find some trail of crimson or the hot sensation at the back of her eyes that told her something was wrong.  Still nothing.

So why did she feel like there were eyes on her back?  What could it be?  A fox shouldn’t make her this anxious, she’d see a large predator stalking her and her horse through her second sight, there would’ve been an attack from another person by now, surely.

But what if the point wasn’t to attack her, but to _watch_ her, gather information?  She didn’t know what they hoped to gain by it—even if she hadn’t been at her peak, Arlette still knew she could fight and that she could win, easily.  Surely any lingering enemy would know that, given the decimation of Achilles’ brotherhood from years back.

Using the second sight accomplished nothing but begin to give the Templar a headache.  She blinked slowly back to her normal vision, the greys saturating back to the muted greens and browns of the woods.  She patted Ash’s shoulder and he slowly relaxed as they continued along the road.  It must have been a fox.  It had to have been a fox.  It absolutely had to be, there was nothing out there that she could see or sense.  She’d get to town and check around again before turning back toward home.

The feeling of being watched remained.  Arlette dismounted outside of a small general store, tying Ash to the post situated by the door as the rain let up.  She petted his nose with a promise she’d try and get him an apple inside before cautiously looking over the horse’s shoulder back at the tree line, just in case.  Still, nothing.  She shook her head at herself after a moment; she always trusted her instincts on these things, but this time it didn’t feel right.  It was just an overreaction caused by staying holed up for months on end at her home.  She could look into it more if it happened again but Ash was calm and she was in a public space, it’d be easy to lose a tail, even in a small town like the one she was in, with her skills.

The general store was empty save for Arlette and the man whom she presumed to be the owner.  He gave her a concerned look, eyes slitting slightly as she walked across the shiny wood floor to examine the few guns on the wall.  There were a few knives, gleaming dully in the limited light allowed in by the shuttered windows, but truthfully she was much more interested in the rifle to the far left of a pair of pistols.  She was well-versed in the use of nearly all commonly found weapons as well as a few less common ones but hadn’t owned a rifle in years.  It might be a good idea to have one in her home, for hunting at least.  That, and the weapon was very fine—even from a distance she could see the lovingly detailed etchings of hounds and roses on the lock and stock.  “How much?”  The Templar inquired, indicating what she meant.

“Four pounds, fifteen schillings,” the shopkeep replied boredly, as if he was asked this question a lot to result in nothing worthwhile happening.  Granted, it was a fair amount of coin to give over, especially in a small farming town like this, and Arlette herself had only come into town to trade for starter plants and seeds or feed for the horses and chickens. 

Still, she could justify it.  Not only was is beautiful, but also useful.  And she was still feeling overly alert from her ride.  Having another weapon on hand, especially given that in her haste to get out before the storm hit she had forgotten to put her favored pistol under her coat, would not hurt her feelings at all.

“I’ll take it,” she replied with a nod, before also pointing out a few apples and a bushel of salt.

Ash was shaking water from his mane with low, unhappy whickers as Arlette left the store.  “I spoil you,” she told him gently as the grey stallion’s attention was drawn from being wet and over to the apple she offered.  Discomfort from the rain momentarily forgotten he was much more willing to let his rider back in the saddle than she initially thought he’d be.

She spurred him on toward home after checking the area one more time with her second sight.

As they rode, even though the feeling of being watched never returned and the ride home was horribly uneventful, Arlette kept a hand on her rifle, just in case, and was more than glad of it when she finally began opening the letters on her desk.

The older ones were the usual requests for her to come visit Boston or updates (usually from Willa) on life.  A short pang of guilt struck her as she skimmed and then reread a letter from Willa detailing how the children were getting along with the new youngest, a daughter who already ran the household at… well, she was likely seventh months _now_ , though the letter said she was barely two months at the time it was written.  The two most recent came from Boston and then from Charles, explaining similar issues in Philadelphia as those reported in Boston. Shay Cormac wrote from Boston, as to the point as Arlette’s own correspondence, while Charles went into much more detail about it.  Much of which she skimmed over.  The important part was that neither man had been in the same place, and given the dates, had not been in communication with one another prior to writing her, so it couldn’t be a plot to get her to go north.  Both parties agreed that attacks on Templar recruits were becoming much more frequent, and even members of the Inner Circle were suffering from it.  Whereas Charles accused lingering Assassins of the attempt on his and the lives of several others at a political meeting in Philadelphia, Shay had other ideas.

Apparently, there _were_ lingering Assassins, young recruits usually.  _Not threats, especially not to her Inner Circle_ , Arlette assumed from the words.  The problem was, Shay only knew that Achilles had been recruiting again (bastard) because the only sign they left were their corpses, same as the Templar recruits.

Arlette frowned deeply.  Usually it was easy to just blame Assassins for death in their ranks, they'd caused the near destruction of the Order's hold on New York and killed countless of Arlette's recruits.  Years ago part of her may have said it was justice but now she had no taste for revenge on anyone.  Reginald Birch's death, or, more accurately, Jim Holden's, had cleared her of that foolish desire.

 

Although that brought a thought to her head.  Obviously, the deaths of Assassin recruits were no longer the fault of Arlette's Templars.  But who else but Templars would know about Assassins and their movements?  That meant either the Templars or Assassins had a rogue sect, or there were Templars from outside the Colonies had entered her territory without answering to the Grandmaster, something simply unacceptable by all standards of the Order.  She couldn't think of anyone willing to cross her- no, she could.  She'd hardly destroyed all those loyal to the late Grandmaster of the British Rite.  Could there be a new leader instilled already and moving to take the Colonies back under the British Rite's control and away from the leadership of a dead Grandmaster's ward?  It didn't seem overly paranoid to think it possible, she'd made plenty of enemies in the past decade of those under Reginald.

 

Well, if that were the case, this new sect could have the Colonies once they pulled them from her cold, dead fingers.

 

It would probably be prudent to pay Charles and his new wife a brief visit, given their close proximity, to discuss her theory and get more information on how to move forward, but honestly she didn't particularly wish to deal with his tendency for the melodramatic while trying to gather information.  While the man was certainly a capable strategist, and she had no regrets over installing him as her right hand and possible successor if the worst should occur, that didn't mean Arlette had to enjoy his company at all times, especially when he was busy being angry that anyone would _dare_ take an attempt on his life.  She elected instead to simply write him.  A brief apology for his distress, a simple and gentle reminder that those sorts of events came with the territory of being a high-ranking Templar, and a short request he make his way to Boston for a meeting of the Inner Circle later and Arlette was sending Caroline to deliver the letter.

 

Now, writing Shay was much harder.  She wanted to speak to him in private, get his opinion on her theories and find out if there was any information he feared would be intercepted in a letter; after all, for years any messages out of New York were short and coded so as not to rouse suspicion from Assassins monitoring trade and post.

 

Finally, after staring at a blank piece of parchment for far too long, Arlette sighed and decided she would just track him down in Boston.  No doubt, given the political and social unrest in the area, most of her Inner Circle was keeping an eye on the area, if not consistently then in shifts.  And if Shay was concerned about some dark horse rising from the space left by the Colonial Assassins, she assumed he'd stay where the trouble was brewing to investigate.  After all, that's what she would do, and the two thought very similarly in most situations.  The realization had troubled her some at first—she'd spent years of her life trying to first reconcile and then remove her Assassin upbringing to leave her Templar ideals and to think she thought so similarly to a man trained in the ways of the Assassins for much of his life had been a shock. But now she realized it truly didn't matter if they both remained loyal, though she no longer believed in truce.  Either way Arlette assumed her Assassin hunter would think and act as she normally did and therefore she could find him from that.  No need to waste time on sending a useless letter with just as little information as Shay sent when it was better spent preparing for long distance travel or planning out her next move.  She sent out a summons to the rest of her Inner Circle, knowing it would arrive a scant few days before she did, before beginning to pack.

 

It felt odd in ways it hadn't in years.  She rarely if ever went on trips longer than an afternoon these days.  She hadn't packed clothing in a bedroll or calculated how much coin she ought to carry since returning to England at Holden's behest.  The simple idea sent her stomach into a knot.  So much destruction and death wrought then, already so much now in this situation, one that she couldn't yet be sure was not from the same source.

  
Arlette paused, holding a waistcoat perhaps too tightly, if her white knuckles were anything to go by.  She had no reason to be like this and yet part of her wanted to just put everything back and let her allies work it out.  She didn't want to get involved and watch as everything she once held dear was destroyed, again.  Her presence might only incite more problems, especially if this whole situation was just a ploy to get her to come out of hiding.  But if it was an attempt to get her to come out and play, no doubt whoever these people were would just keep attacking her recruits, her allies, maybe even her friends.  If they were half as organized as needed to be to take on Assassins they could still cause real problems for her men.  They already _had_ in fact, if the letters were anything to go by.

How much longer did they really have, then?  The Colonies were already a powder keg, they could have years or they could have months before a match was lit and everything went to hell, and that could be easily sped along by Templars or Assassins or whatever these new killers were.  And even if that wasn’t a trick they, whoever “they” were, wanted to use to their advantage, the unrest in Boston especially could create tricky or even deadly situations for her men.  There were too many variables with all of this.

A scowl formed on her features.  Arlette was not about to let this situation play her.  She’d change the rules of this new game.  Now that she was sitting up and paying attention, she swore to herself she would stomp out the weeds that had grown in the wake of her ruinous years after receiving Holden’s letter.  She’d spent far too long stuck here and even if she wasn’t done grieving the lives and chances she had lost, Arlette had to move on.

 _The Grandmaster has no luxury of hesitation, or they pay for it like I am now_ , she thought sourly.

Decision made, she finished throwing together her needs for travel and made her way downstairs, slowing and silencing her steps when she heard voices.

“—not sure Master Kenway is willing to see anyone, yet.”  That was Caroline; Arlette could recognize the frustrated tone covering up distress at whoever was at the door.  She peered at the foyer from under the brim of her hat, only able to see the chestnut-colored back of Caroline’s head and part of her dress as she bodily blocked the door and their visitor.

That couldn’t be good.

Very slowly, the Templar continued down the stairs, still straining her ears to listen to the muffled voice of the pair downstairs, keeping her wrist tensed and ready to eject the blade strapped there if need be.  So far she couldn’t make out much more than an exasperated masculine tone from outside, rendering her unable to tell if they were truly dangerous or just hassling her housekeeper.

“I cannae just ‘let you in’, sir,” Caroline groused, shoulders tense enough for Arlette to see halfway across the house.  “My master is seeing no one right now—no, I have not seen you before, how should I know you are not lying for me to trust you?”

Apparently the stranger took offense to that, if the somewhat difficult to make out “not lying” was anything to go by.  If everything going on around her didn’t have Arlette on edge she probably would have smiled at her housekeeper’s reaction to the man outside grabbing the doorframe as she tried to shut the door.  If he thought she wouldn’t shut it on his fingers, he was dead wrong.  A fierce yelp later and some choice profanities from Caroline and they released their hold on the door, much to the relief of both women inside.

“That’s what you get!”  Caroline all but slammed the heavy wooden door and then leaned her back against it with a sigh.  “Did I disturb you, Master Kenway?”

Arlette shook her head and began to relax until the person outside began banging on the door again.  She made her way down into the foyer and silenced Caroline before she could begin yelling at their untimely visitor again.  “I can handle this.”

“Beg pardon, I am sure you can, but I can deal with a drunk cretin as well,” the older woman’s brow was wrinkled in a scowl and she looked positively determined to chase off the ‘drunk cretin’ rather than let him continue to bother Arlette.  It was sweet how protective she was of her, although Arlette found it smothering at times.  Caroline meant well, she knew, but right now Arlette would rather take the chance of a hostile visitor on her own life rather than betting an innocent housekeeper’s.

Ready to strike at the first sign of aggression, Arlette opened the door and narrowly missed getting hit by a fist.  She snatched the man’s wrist and twisted, moving in one fluid strike to twist their arm behind their back and bring her hidden blade to their throat.  Clearly they hadn’t expected that, and as soon as she took a moment to see who it was, Arlette realized why.

With an annoyed sigh she released her unfortunate subordinate.  “What are you doing _here_ , Thomas?”  Really, what on earth was he doing outside of New York?

Thomas looked rightfully miffed that not only had he likely gotten fingers broken by Caroline but now had an aching shoulder due to the Grandmaster’s actions.  “Ya know, usually _dislocating a man’s shoulder_ isn’ seen as friendly-like,” he snapped, rubbing the sore point.

Arlette rolled her eyes.  He was lucky she hadn’t stabbed him!  “Just answer the question, Thomas.  You are trying my patience.”

Thomas retained the scowl but did respond this time.  “There wasn’ no reply to the letters.”  He glanced over his shoulder before turning back to Arlette.  “Polly shouldn’t talk ‘bout there out in the open,” he said slowly.

Taking the hint, Arlette stepped aside and let Thomas into the house, shutting the door behind him much less violently than it had been before.  Caroline wrinkled her nose but made herself scarce, sensing the start of a conversation she didn’t need to be part of.  Thomas gave the room a cursory once-over, stopping as soon as Arlette cleared her throat to get his attention again.  “Well, I dunno if you’ve heard about the deaths an’ all—“

“Yes.”

The younger man made a slight face and looked at his bruised hand rather than meeting Arlette’s eyes.  “So… things in New York got bad again.  Couldn’ write from there, your friend Cormac didn’ stick around soon as it did.  I thought you’d at least respond ta Charlie but we ‘eard nothin’ so I came ta find you.”

Arlette pursed her lips and shifted her weight, arms folded.  “If this is an attempt to guilt me—“

“Course it’s not!”  Thomas snapped, before balking as he realized how _stupid_ yelling at the Grandmaster was.  “’S just, we need a leader.  Charlie’s great an’ all but not the same.  Things isn’ so good anymore.”  He rubbed his shoulder again though it seemed more a nervous habit and excuse to still avoid eye contact than out of actual pain.  “Times like this we all haveta stick together, yeah?  Strength in numbers.”

Loathe as she was to admit it, he made a point.  Arlette relaxed her shoulders just a bit.  “I sent a summons but an hour ago for everyone to meet in Boston.  You ought to ride out, find Shay and any others along the way.”

“See, the thing is…”  A soft sigh before Thomas continued, finally meeting Arlette’s now-confused gaze.  “This was all Shay’s idea, ta escort you to Boston.  Because ‘fore I left, they put a threat out against your life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....And so the plot begins to show itself. Thank you to everyone for their support of me and my (slow) writing, it really helps me stay motivated to continue Thomas and Arlette's story :) Also, pretty soon I'm going to be posting an 8tracks mix for Shrine of Lies, I'll link it here with the next chapter. If there's enough interest I may also post sketches pertaining to Shrine. Thank you once again for your support of this story, it means the world.
> 
> The italics at the beginning of the story are from Bon Iver's "Holocene" and really the song has nothing to do with this story at all.


	7. A Dark Horse : Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your patience with my updates and your wonderful comments and support! It really does motivate me to continue and I hope you continue to enjoy the story as we actually get to, you know, the story.
> 
> A note on updates, I'm going to try to continue on an update every two weeks or so. With uni starting for me again very soon I want to give myself enough time to get good (decent?) chapters written for you guys. The next update might be a tiny bit late because I want to write myself a chapter ahead in case of a sudden busy schedule so I can keep updating at reasonable times, but we'll find out!

**Virginia, 1761**

Regrets began about as soon as soon as Thomas left New York.  Traveling through the frontier between cities, or, at the very least, homesteads, had never been his favorite part of his job.  In fact, he _loathed_ the process of packing up whatever meager belongings he needed, buying supplies, and saddling his frequently ill-tempered chestnut mare to begin an arduous journey out into the middle of God-knows-where.  Everyone knew this, he complained loudly enough that the whole damn town probably knew.

Yet here he was, in Virginia, outside of Kenway’s plantation home, after saddling up for a weeklong journey.  And now, he was nursing an injured hand while waiting for Kenway to finish getting himself ready to travel back to Boston.

The broken fingers were really the issue.  Thomas had complained about getting ordered about to fetch this or that by a pompous defector—no, that wasn’t fair, Cormac was actually an okay bloke—but really his mood hadn’t been so surly and dismal until Kenway’s spirited maid slammed his hand in the door.  He really hadn’t thought she had it in her.  Now, he actually sort of wanted to congratulate her on her mettle and recommend her into the fold, if she wasn’t already a part of it.  It wasn’t just _anyone_ willing to stand up to an armed stranger.  Unfortunately, the impressed side warred with the one still focusing on the pain of setting and wrapping the broken and bleeding fingers, making him feel none too charitable toward anyone.  Especially not one Haytham Kenway, who was not truly dawdling but the mix of Thomas’ foul mood, the fact that the Grandmaster had stayed distant for upwards of three years, and the knowledge he had another several days of traveling (but this time with the source of remaining unrequited feelings) only served to make him glare from where he leaned against a fence.

“Are ya sure she can make the trip?”  Thomas asked, a bit of a sneer entering his voice without permission.  The old, brown horse didn’t look sway-backed yet but she was certainly grey and long in the tooth.  This wasn’t some jaunt around the property, this was several days’ worth of hard riding across several Colonies on high alert.

Kenway shot him a look that said exactly what he thought of that comment.  “Scratch was a war horse, she will be fine.”

Thomas cocked his head.  What kind of a name was ‘Scratch’?  He was about to ask just that, wanting an argument to relieve some of the tension he felt, when he realized he had no right to talk, given he simply referred to his chestnut as ‘Horse’.

After finishing tying down a few more things and checking the straps, Kenway patted Scratch and turned back to his subordinate.  “We ought to get a start before nightfall.”

Glancing at the sky, Thomas noted they would probably stop in a few hours.  It had already been late afternoon when he arrived, and even though it was still late summer the days were growing shorter and shorter and would likely get worse by the time they made it north to Boston.  He nodded simply, and followed the Grandmaster’s example of mounting up and turning their horses toward the main road.

The well-packed dirt still bore prints from when Thomas had come down the road an hour before.  He’d been twitchy the whole time he’d been out in the open, certain for no good reason whatsoever that he was being followed.  He chalked it up to the grim aura over the northern Colonies, especially in the cities.  Sure, plenty of people had turned up dead out in the frontier or rural farming towns the same way they did in Boston and New York and even Philadelphia now, but it hit harder when it was so close to home.  The Order’s concern about members dying in the frontier hadn’t been as immediate—after all, the frontier was dangerous and there were always odd rumors out in there, they’d simply assumed it was some illness or animal attacks.  It wasn’t until piles of bodies were found and then people began dropping the same way within the cities that they thought to be concerned.

Truthfully, the Inner Circle hadn’t pursued it until their stand-in leader was threatened in Philadelphia.  Thomas had looked into it briefly but when everything turned into a dead end and the Grandmaster himself was uninvolved in any of it, he’d let it go.

Thank God for Cormac refusing to let sleeping dogs lie and pursuing it further, otherwise Thomas had a feeling the Templars’ complacency would’ve actually cost lives.  The threat felt very real after he received Cormac’s letter, which was about as unusual as the nearly bloodless deaths of their recruits—they were both typically solitary types, after all, preferring to stick to their little bands rather than the rest of the Inner Circle.  The feeling of something being wrong only got worse when their Assassin hunter all but demanded Thomas go after Kenway and bring him back to Boston.

Thomas didn’t know how much the Grandmaster knew about all this, but if his stiff posture and shifty eyes said anything, he knew enough to agree with Thomas about sticking to backroads and dense forest as soon as they hit town.

Speaking of the town, it was actually very near and he wondered briefly if he ought to ask if Kenway needed any supplies.  After all, it had been awhile (or so he assumed) since the other man had spent much time outside of his own plot of land.  Maybe he would’ve forgotten something.  Honestly though, the last thing Thomas wanted was to be out in the open in a town he didn’t know for certain was safe for them.  After all, even in places he felt ‘safe’ in, like New York, he was always alert.  More so now, even after New York had been restored to his and the Templars’ control, given that despite that there were new deaths uncovered daily, with no certain culprit or understandable motive.  Thomas didn’t have to be a genius to figure out it wasn’t Assassins—they were gone, and tended to favor slashing necks, which was a bloody business, over whatever bloodless killing this was.  Not poison, not knives, not guns, from what he could tell.  Just a body staring with milky eyes and a lingering sense of dread.

Suffice to say, Thomas was not eager to test his luck and wander through every town on their way north, even with backup.  He still felt like there were eyes everywhere.

“So…” Kenway broke the silence, though it sounded about as awkward as anything.  The Irishman looked over, twisting slightly in the saddle.  “Shay sent you, you said.”

Not a question, which made Thomas feel like there was a ‘right’ answer to the question.  He jerked his chin in affirmation.  “Found his way inta New York.”

He’d just begun turning back to face forward because of the fit Horse was throwing over his position when he caught just a glimpse of what looked suspiciously like Kenway rolling his eyes.  Did he really just-?  Thomas spun around fast enough to accidentally jerk the reins and make his horse kick and snort.  “Didya just roll your eyes at me?”  The glee in his voice was unmistakable, all annoyance at broken fingers and traveling briefly gone.  The glare he got in response triggered a sharp bark of a laugh.  He hadn’t seen Kenway do that since they _met_!

“If I did?” The Grandmaster all but growled, clearly not as amused as his subordinate.

Still chuckling, Thomas didn’t notice the tree coming up until Horse rammed his knee into it.  With a yelp he turned back around to pull her head in a different direction and away from the line of trees and thorn bushes.  Why did every female thing he encountered hate him today?  Was this cosmic retribution for whoring?  “’S just funny—ow, stop that, ya bitch—I don’t think I seen ya do _that_ in years.  Thought the stick in your arse was back ta stay!”

He could _hear_ the urge to throttle him in Kenway’s voice.  “ _What_ are you trying to accomplish here?”

“We have a week of riding, we should try ta _pretend_ we’re friends at least—“

“Who said you’re my friend?”

 _That_ stung.  “I didn’ say we were,” he replied, all mirth gone from his tone.  They continued in silence for several minutes, the discomfort settling over both parties until finally Thomas was begging for something to break it.

“Should prob’ly stick ta back roads,” he offered, turning the chestnut mare toward a smaller path that would take them around town rather than through it, and past a small abandoned farm house.  Kenway made no indication he’d heard but followed nonetheless.

There was a bit of soft shuffling from behind him before Kenway spoke again.  “That last remark was rather callous.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and tried not to scoff.  “That’s me, callous bast—“

“No, mine.”  Thomas glanced over his shoulder; Kenway wasn’t looking at him, but he did have his lips pursed in a way that he’d come to realize meant the Grandmaster was not going to apologize but did feel sorry.  “It was out of line to act as though we are such great strangers to one another.”

“Oh.”  The Irishman sort of wanted to snap that yeah, it was pretty out of line to throw kindness back at him in such a rude way.  They had been close, once, close enough to find the other’s attitudes funny or at least agreeable, close enough that Kenway had defended him to others.  Things had changed, of course, they’d both been through hard times.  But wasn’t Kenway the same person deep down?

Thomas shrugged and cleared his throat awkwardly.  “No harm done or nothin’,” he replied slowly.  “Thought we was friends, once, is all.”

“I have a hard time with that concept.”

A sigh from Thomas, but he still nodded.  Well, he didn’t expect much more than that.

“…It does not mean we can’t... try. To be friendly again, I mean,” Kenway offered.  It sounded like he disliked the taste of the words.  “I suppose we were friends, for lack of a better term, yes?”

“I like ta think so,” Thomas replied, hopeful again.  “You thought I was funny when we first met, after all,” the words came with a light laugh.

The slightest hint of amusement crept into Kenway’s typically gruff voice.  “I recall finding you irritating and insufferable, actually, which means not much has changed.”

“Don’ know what else ta tell ya other than if you’re expectin’ different, you’re in for a lotta disappointment, sir.”

“Mm.”  The atmosphere had significantly lightened by that point, and Thomas found himself smiling to himself at the easy way they slipped into comfortable silence, given how tense things had been before.  People didn’t really change, not in their hearts, which was probably why Thomas liked them.  He preferred steadfast things in his life, and knowing what he could expect from others.  And this wasn’t abnormal, the quiet.  It felt suspiciously like maybe things could get better from there and go back to how they were four years ago.

The pair had just passed the farmhouse Thomas recalled outside of the town when the distant sound of hoofbeats approaching quickly made them turn quickly, stopping both horses.  Neither had truly let their guards down, despite being more at ease with each other.  They would’ve—should’ve— noticed someone following them.  There had been no sign of anyone else on the road, or any signal anyone but Kenway’s maid knew where they were.  And despite feeling as though he was being watched, Thomas _knew_ he hadn’t been followed to Kenway’s home.

Apparently, the aforementioned man felt the same, tense and reaching for an elegant rifle strapped over the cantle of his saddle.  With a jerk of his head he signaled to Thomas to take up a position behind the farmhouse.  He nodded once and kept his eyes on the road as he did.  It sounded like only one rider, but that could be wrong, from this distance.  Kenway had disappeared somewhere, likely into the brush as his mare trotted off.

In a moment of hare-brained genius Thomas decided to stand on top of his own horse (much to the mare’s chagrin) long enough to clamber up onto the sagging roof.  It was more open but also easier to see and defend from, and if by some chance the rider hadn’t seen them yet and was just following their tracks, he could snipe them from above.  It was foolproof.  So long as the roof didn’t give out, he realized as the old wood and shingling creaked ominously under his boots.  That would be very bad, the last thing he and Kenway needed was for him to be further injured today when they had someone clearly following them.

It took only a few minutes before the cloaked rider came into sight and Thomas pulled a pistol from his overcoat.  Everything felt drawn out in his anxiety, made worse as the rider slowed their horse to a trot and finally a walk as they searched for more prints.

There were now two paths rather than one and the rider would have to choose which to follow and hope it was the right one; smart thinking on Kenway’s part.  The rider appeared frustrated and indecisive, clouding his attention from the man on the roof.  Slowly he took aim, ready to fire as soon as he came into range when the man finally spurred his horse along the path Thomas had left.  He let out a slow breath and squeezed the trigger; their tail would be in range in just a few strides, when out of seemingly nowhere Kenway burst from cover and grabbed the horse’s reins, training his own rifle on the startled rider.  Unfortunately, the move also startled Thomas and with a deafening report, he fired.  The shot went wide, if only barely given the indignant shouts from both Kenway and rider.

“Hold your fire!”  The Grandmaster roared.  That made no sense, surely he knew Thomas could make a more difficult shot than that.

Unless it wasn’t an enemy.

Had they reacted over nothing?  Thomas dropped down from the roof, further agitating his mare into pulling forcefully against the bush he’d looped her reins through.  He ignored it and jogged over to the pair, still not totally trusting it was someone completely innocent given how he could hear slightly raised voices and irritated tones.  Then the words came through and he rolled his eyes.

“—teach you _discretion_?  You are well aware there is a distinct threat of attack on any of us at any minute!”

“Hence why I rode hard to get here, better to travel together than separate—“

“Not at the cost of leaving an easy trail and possibly getting yourself _killed_ by your own allies!”  Kenway threw his arms in the air and continued scathingly.  “Why don’t we just do the bastards’ job for them?”

“’Ello there, Charlie,” Thomas called, earning glares from both Charles and Kenway.  Oh well.  He’d rather interject and get a foul look than listen to them yell anymore.

Charles’ attention quickly swung back around to the Grandmaster.  “What is _he_ doing here?  I was under the impression you were planning to travel alone, given your letter.”

“I was,” Kenway replied matter-of-factly.  “Thomas here just showed up, much like you.  However, unlike you, he was inconspicuous.”

‘Inconspicuous’ was a bit of an overstatement, considering his brief and painful argument with the maid, but he wouldn’t argue.

“I have a hard time believing that,” Charles scoffed.  Point taken.

 Kenway narrowed his eyes but appeared to decide it wasn’t worth it to pursue any further.  He sighed, shoulders relaxing ever-so-slightly.  “We will talk about this later.  We have a long way to go yet and only a few hours before nightfall.”

Thomas had a feeling he was going to hate the journey home even more than the journey to Virginia.

xXx

**Boston, 1761**

Near as soon as he arrived back into Boston, Thomas headed back to the outskirts of town, staking out the usual hideouts for gangs and thieves who had caused them problems in the past.  He figured given they had no real starting place for their search for whoever was killing off their members.  Honestly, he had no idea if any of them knew of any possible motive or even had an inkling of what the point was.  There were no Assassins left, he thought, so it couldn’t be motivated by their secret war.  Nothing had been taken off the bodies, to his knowledge, and most of the bodies that turned up didn’t belong to people who had valuable knowledge concerning the Order.  Mostly, just hired thugs or black market dealers, recruits who had yet to be fully inducted in the Order, people like that.

So, with no clear motive and continued attacks and deaths, Kenway had told everyone to stick close and work together.  Despite his initial anger at Charles dropping in on them out of the blue in Virginia, he had come to agree that staying in groups was a good plan.  An attack seemed less likely that way.

Thomas thought it was a load of bullshit.

Kenway hadn’t been present, he didn’t _understand_ the situation.  Cormac and the rest had explained the situation best they could, Thomas had as well of course, but that didn’t mean he really got it.  Traveling with two others back to Boston instead of alone had not made him feel any safer, and considering how jumpy Kenway had been, he hadn’t felt at ease, either.  If anything Thomas felt as though a bigger group just made a more obvious target.  He could see where Kenway was coming from, but groups of bodies had turned up before and Charles was shot at while in a big group of politically and militarily important men.  These people clearly had no profile when it came to their kills, and if they were after leaders in the Order and the Colonies at large, three or four members of the Inner Circle together would just mean less running about trying to find them for those responsible for the murders.  Kenway didn’t know shite about the situation and as such Thomas was plenty content to go out on his own and trust his own wits.  They’d gotten him out of tight spaces plenty of times before.

He really would have to just rely on his wits this time around.  The broken fingers were in much better shape, but still healing, and throbbed uncomfortably whenever he tried to use them for even small things.  He was lucky the injured fingers were on his off-hand and not the one he typically used to shoot or fight, but they still troubled him yet.  If he came across anyone, he wasn’t about to fight and make the injury worse.

The last two places he’d checked had been abandoned.  One, an old shack that used to be an Assassin safehouse, apparently.  There were still small bits and pieces of décor that proved it, though no one had used it since the purge of the Brotherhood.  The other place was the same dilapidated fort Kenway and Charles had helped him infiltrate years ago, which had been repurposed many times by gangs, Templars, Assassins, and soldiers alike.

It had still been light out when he visited those places, though, so maybe that played into it.  Darkness gathered quickly as Thomas made his way to his final destination before he called it a night.  He didn’t expect anything to come of this place, either.  Not once in his life had he seen it used outside of the two months or so that he used it as a meeting place with a prominent smuggler who went by ‘Cricket’.

Poor Cricket.  The rangy, good-hearted son of a bitch’s body had turned up three weeks past in a barn.

Shaking off dark thoughts as he approached the burnt-out skeleton of a house, Thomas realized he was not the only one who had thought to come to the place.  Slowing and silencing his steps as best he could on the gravel road, he paced quickly over to the edge of the road and into the shadows of the sparse trees.  He couldn’t see anyone yet but there was a candle in the window, indicating someone was there or would soon be back.

Thomas paused there at the edge of the road, keeping low as though it would really help in such an open area.  Something was very, very wrong here, he could feel it in the pit of his stomach, a cold knot of dread soaking into him.  He was not supposed to be here.  He should just turn around, report that he’d seen something weird at an old hideout, and investigate during the day with backup.  Kenway had a point, he supposed, about having a buddy or two along, at least for things like _this_.  There was no telling how many people were inside the shell of a building—he could easily be outnumbered, or at least outgunned.  He couldn’t even fight in the first place right now with his injured hand.  Damn, how was it _he_ was the one who found trouble _every time_ he looked into threats?

Turning around would be the smart thing.  Leaving before someone noticed him would be the best idea he’d had all day.

And yet there was an unmistakable pull drawing him in.

Of course Thomas was curious about the house, even if the fact someone was actually there was concerning.  But this was more than curiosity, it was a soothing argument against every instinct telling him to turn and run as far as he could.  There was logically nothing to be so afraid of, it was just a house with a candle.  It had been _his_ safe meeting place first anyhow!  And besides, the idea he hadn’t been noticed felt laughable as his skin prickled with the feeling he was being watched by someone, or maybe something.

Yes, it was really better if he investigated further, at least to see how many were gathered at the house, find some clue as to what was going on.

Even as his feet began moving slowly but steadily toward the house he still really, really didn’t want to.  Something was wrong here and he didn’t want to be the one to find out exactly what it was.  At least, not by himself.

Regardless, he was doing exactly that.

Now that he was closer, Thomas realized he couldn’t hear any voices.  Or see any shadows cast by the candle.  Normally that would be a relief, but he still felt invisible eyes boring into his back despite apparently being alone.  The unease grew stronger when he found himself outside the broken door, still physically intact and very much on his own.  Should he laugh at himself for being so nervous because it was dark and a candle in an abandoned house was weird?  Did his trepidation about the situation have merit?

Drawing a deep but quiet breath, the Templar opened the door very slowly.  Back when he and Cricket still met at the burnt house, they’d oiled all the door hinges to keep noise down to a minimum.  Whoever left the candle apparently had the same idea, given how the door made no sound whatsoever.  In fact, everything in the house was silent as the grave, save for Thomas’ own steady, quiet breaths and steps over singed hardwood.  Nothing appeared to have been moved since he’d last been there at first glance.  He nearly turned and left at that, truly believing he’d been stupid in thinking there was something wrong.  “Idiot,” he muttered to himself, more to break the silence than anything else.  Sure the candle was weird, but nothing else was.  Everything was exactly as it had been, same oiled doors, same three-legged chair in the corner of the room, same hardwood cabinet by the window that had survived with minimal burning with the same box on top of it—

There hadn’t been a box before.

Thomas narrowed his eyes, wracking his brain for any memory of leaving a box in the house.  Neither he nor Cricket ever left anything there, it was too open.  Good for secret meetings because no one was around, bad for keeping things secret because of wandering bandits and the consistently unpredictable elements.

Most unnerving about the box was how the sensation of being watched only increased as he took a small step toward it.  It had to be what he was so scared of.  Every instinct told him the box was nothing but trouble and he should leave it, leave the dilapidated building far behind and report back to someone, Willa or Kenway or, fuck, even Cormac, who seemed to know more than he let on.

But despite all that, knowing it would be smartest to get out before he got himself into real trouble, Thomas opened the box.  It was mostly empty, just a simple little wooden crate that must have once been used to hold papers or something similar.  At the bottom, a pale rod, not much bigger than his hand, sat as though it had every right to be there.  Thomas had just been reaching for it, despite the hair on the back of his neck raising as he did, when he felt something settle gingerly on his shoulder.  Immediately thinking it was a spider or something similar, he reached up with a disgusted noise to swat at it and instead came away with flour all across his palm.  For a moment confusion spread through him, until Thomas looked around and realized that not only was there apparently a pulley attached to the box, but it had tipped flour into the room, which was now slowly settling over everything near the window.

Including the candle on the window sill right beside him.

Fear hit Thomas harder than it ever had before.  The candle wasn’t there to light the way for someone or signal a meeting or anything else, it was part of a trap for anyone stupid enough to continue on in and take what was in the box.

Right as the first bit of flour dust hit the candle and ignited with a bang, Thomas grabbed the rod from the box despite the painful spasm his fingers gave and sprinted for the door.  He’d have to be damn lucky to outrun the blast and he knew that, silently praying he’d make it and shedding the flour-dusted jacket he wore.  It wouldn’t save him from flames passing through the suspended particles but it might keep his clothes from igniting too quickly and increasing his chance of survival was really all that mattered to him as he barely crossed the threshold in time to escape the worst of the explosion.

The night roared and flashed bright as flames spread through the air and caught onto the remains of the house.  Thomas kept running, ignoring the heat and pain on his shoulder as flames ate through his waistcoat and undershirt, desperate to get as far away as possible from that deathtrap.

Dimly, as he slowed long enough to pat out flames with his hat, he realized he had a lot of explaining to do.


	8. A Dark Horse : Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have very little to say here other than check back in a couple days for an updated note on links to Shrine things from my personal blog
> 
> And thank you again so much for the comments and kudos! It really helped me through this dialogue-heavy chapter.

**Boston, 1761**

Something was wrong.  Arlette knew that as soon as she heard the sound of running feet pattering up the stairs followed by rapid knocking against her room’s door.  Noise in the night was far from uncommon at an inn, especially at someplace like the Green Dragon, but very rarely did it include her.  Usually, her rented room was largely ignored, the innkeeper and his overly friendly wife well-bribed to keep their noses out of Kenway business, which included not coming anywhere near Arlette’s quarters unless absolutely necessary—‘absolutely necessary’ taken to mean ‘nothing less than the first signs laid out in the book of Revelations’.

Given the way things were going for her Order right now, she had a bad feeling a body had turned up.  She sincerely hoped it hadn’t been strung up outside the inn to make a statement.

“Come in,” Arlette ordered, glad she hadn’t disrobed and remained in her well-crafted disguise.  She wasn’t in the mood for a long explanation when something very clearly had gone wrong.

The innkeeper’s wife—damned that she couldn’t remember the woman’s name—was flushed and clearly had come in a rush.  If there was a body outside, heads would roll.  “There’s a man here for you,” she said, usually high voice strained further from her apparent panic.  “He says your associate, Tom—Thomas?  Yes, he was injured, the man with him was a Doctor Church, they’re going to his home,” Arlette cut her off there, the woman squeaking indignantly as the Grandmaster rushed past her.

Idiot!  He must have gone out.  Even if he _had_ listened to her order to never go off alone, if he’d brought Benjamin Church of all people (which she had a distinct feeling Thomas had not) it would be like dragging dead weight along.  Church had his uses, Arlette kept no one around who could not benefit her Order, but backup was not one of them.

More pressing though was what, exactly, had happened.

Fuming, Arlette took to the rooftops, unwilling to deal with any patrols or the panicked people milling around on the ground.  Her actions caused more than a few startled noises and one officer shouting at her to ‘get down, fiend!’ but she ignored all of it.  Apparently something bigger was going on than the Templar thought, given after the initial shout not a single soldier took aim or continued harassing her.  Skin prickling, she shifted into her second sight to both find her allies’ trail and perhaps gain some insight as to what was going on in town.  The night washed out to grey with small bright spots of white and patrols burning her eyes in bright right, and the sounds of the streets muffled as though she’d stuck her head into a basin of water.  After some careful looking and straining her eyes, the Grandmaster caught sight of a very faint trail of footsteps outlined in a comforting blue, warm and inviting.  Though the two sets of prints were very close together and sometimes overlapped even as though one supported the other, the evenness of the gaits indicated Thomas hadn’t been so grievously injured he would die—probably.  Arlette was well aware she was making assumptions.  But what caused the panic in the streets if the people out at this time of night hadn’t just seen a dying man stumble past an inn?  _I need to get to higher ground._   Quickly she blinked away her second sight and took a running lunge at a taller building, moving still in the direction of Church’s house while getting to a cathedral spire.  The higher up she was, the better the vantage point over the city.

Despite being used to freakish vertical ascensions Arlette had to pause a moment on the church roof to give her tired muscles a break, breathing deeply to calm her heartbeat.  As she felt her body adjust and relax back to stasis she shifted back into the second sight, looking all around from her perch.  Nothing by the harbor, much of the city was as it should be—quiet in the dark, candles burning in a few windows, patrols switching over without fuss.  She turned her head and a building lit up in her periphery.

It was pale gold, so bright it hurt to look at.  It was far off at the edge of Boston in an area that she was sure had once been inhabited but now looked positively abandoned.  The kind of place Thomas Hickey could be found, or would at least favor for his ‘shadow market’ dealings, she mused.  Finally she had to give up, shielding her eyes as the grey haze dissipated to reveal the building remained bright in her normal vision, flames licking into the sky.

 _Well_ , Arlette supposed, _it certainly explains the rush in the streets._

Someone else could figure out what was going on there, the Grandmaster decided as she flew across the rooftops again toward Church’s home.  The pair had to have arrived during the time Arlette searched, and if not she’d simply meet them.  She had questions and was more than prepared to demand answers from her wayward subordinate, who lately seemed more and more like a loose cannon.

…Perhaps that was unfair, Thomas meant no harm.  Church’s bad business dealings should concern her more than a well-meaning young man who sometimes became too certain of his convictions.  What was the saying, “the road to Hell is paved with good intentions”?

And yet these good intentions seemed to land him in trouble more often than she liked.

Not bothering to knock to announce her arrival, Arlette simply entered Church’s home.  Both men startled when she entered, Benjamin freezing before balking away from the door and Thomas going so far as to draw a pistol on the intruder until he realized who it was and put it away, relaxing as much as he could.  “’S just Kenway, Ben.”  He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘pompous arse coulda knocked’.

The Grandmaster narrowed her eyes and tilted her chin in a way all her men had learned meant the Kenway rage could bubble up at any moment.  “Was that _truly_ necessary?”

“ _Forgive me_ for bein’ a bit jumpy after nearly gettin’ blown sky-high!”

“And whose fault was that?” Arlette said, voice sharp.  His words suddenly sank in, as well as his disheveled and sooty appearance.  “Did you just imply your actions nearly got you _blown up_?”

Thomas at least had shame enough to look chastised already, and Arlette hadn’t even started.  “Someone rigged Cricket’s safe house,” he replied.

“Pardon?”

Church barely even looked up from where he sat, cutting away bloodied and burnt remains of Thomas’ sleeve.  “The smuggler with the walleye,” the doctor supplied; clearly, he’d been clued in as well, likely in exactly that manner given how Thomas usually explained things.  Arlette merely hummed in appreciation though the description didn’t ring any bells.  ‘Cricket’ must have been an ally Thomas made while she was… indisposed.

She still expected more information than a rigged safe house, though.  “Where do we find your Cricket?”

To Arlette’s surprise, Thomas looked and sounded angry with her.  “He’s dead.”

Ah.  “So clearly it wasn’t him.”  Dismissive, as she oft had to be in this profession.  It only riled Thomas more, who she had a feeling would have lunged if not for Church holding his arm still.  “What precisely were you two doing at a dead man’s safe house?”

A guilty look flashed over the men’s faces.  “Thomas went off alone,” Church supplied.  Thomas didn’t even both with looking indignant at being ratted out.

“After I _specifically told all of you_ not to?”

The Irishman shifted slightly.  “Look, if these crazy Assassin people want us dead, isn’ it easier for ‘em if we’re all huddled together?  I figure we split up and they can’t get at us so easy.”

“A larger group can defend itself much better than an individual.”

“But what good does tha’ do if they’re settin’ traps now?”  Thomas snapped.  “If there was more’n just me in the house, things would’ve gone a lot worse than a few burns.  They set up flour an’ a candle, anythin’ covered by the dust went up in flame.  ‘S like they _expected_ a group.”

Church snorted.  “Smart, for Assassins.”

A sigh went through Arlette.  She’d hoped to keep panic and speculation and awkward questions at bay by not admitting to anyone who didn’t know that it wasn’t Assassins, at least not just.  “I doubt Assassins set this up.”

As expected both men stared at her, Church like he wondered if their Grandmaster had gone slightly mad and Thomas with slow thoughts of what had been implied.  “Assassins would not risk a civilian stumbling into that trap.  Of course we would assume an Assassin resurgence in Boston when our allies and brothers began turning up dead rather than thinking there may be another player on our stage.  It makes more sense, correct?  The attacks did not seem too unlike something Assassins might try.  Abnormal, sure, but not so much so we would assume it was not them, and they did begin recruiting again for a time.  But,” Arlette raised a hand to stop any argument before she finished.  “Those recruits turned up dead, as well.”

Arlette didn’t want to continue, not at all, but the silence of realization between the three felt terrible, perhaps more so than just admitting the secrets.  “Bullshit,” Thomas said with no vehemence.

“If only.”  The Grandmaster was sure she looked uncomfortable.  “We don’t know who it is or why they are doing this.  Shay Cormac has been looking into it for me, and I can assume he believed the threat bigger than any of us can handle alone, given he got Thomas involved long enough to bring me back to Boston.”

“So you’re saying—“

“I want everyone to stay together until we know who and what is hunting us.”

“We don’t even _know_?  You have no idea what is happening?”  Now Church looked furious, face reddening.  “We could die at any minute without even seeing it coming?”

“Tha’s usually ‘ow death works,” Thomas replied dryly.

“Be serious!”  Church’s attention turned on Thomas now.  “At least when we know our enemy we know what to look for.”

Thomas’ mouth twisted and he looked over at Arlette almost guiltily, glancing away from her eyes quickly.  “He ‘as a point.”

“Which is why I insist we all use our heads instead of running off and playing the hero until we know enough to tell what is going on,” Arlette replied, a note of testiness entering her voice.

“Harsh.”

Church still glowered between them.  “I’ve done what I can for your burns, get out.  With all due respect, I mean both of you.  I’ll not have any enemies or traitors to the Order coming after me, next, due to either of you.”

Making a mental not to talk to Church about this behavior later, Arlette turned toward the door with a nod.  He was frightened, it was understandable.  Not precisely permissible but he could have a few hours to calm down from his crisis.  What she didn’t understand was Thomas’ apparent lack of concern over it all.  Maybe she should worry about that, rather than Church.  Or maybe he was in shock.  Or bluffing to save face for his earlier disregard of her commands.

The younger man followed her out, still clearly favoring his right hand and she had to remind herself Caroline had broken two of his fingers a week prior.  “Should’ve told us, ya know.  Beg pardon.”

Arlette sighed through her nose.  “I was trying to avoid this sort of panic.  I assumed my men would listen to a direct order.”

A shrug.  “I thought somethin’ was fishy.”

“It’s not your job to look into my matters.”

An awkward pause passed between them.  “I s’pose.”  They walked in silence for a bit.  “Still should’ve told us.”

“Or, you should have listened to me.”

“Why?  We can’t trust ya—“

“Because I said so!”  Now Arlette was angry, the mix of concern she’d nearly lost a close ally and annoyance at being questioned and discomfort with the unknown coming together in an ugly way as she stared him down.  “I am your superior, you listen to what I say regardless of ‘trust’ or liking what I say.  Am I clear?”  No answer, just silence with a mutinous undercurrent.  “Am.  I. Clear?”

“…Crystal.”

“Good.”  Arlette turned away, striding away in a manner that showed she was done with the conversation.

She made it nearly a block before she heard footsteps and Thomas called after her.  “I didn’ wanna say anythin’ in front of Church.  There was this _thing_ at the house.  Like the things ya looked for when we first started workin’ together.”

No.  No way he’d found an artifact.  Arlette slowed, and looked over her shoulder, glad her hat was low enough on her head to cover her eyes and the shock in them.  That explained much, she’d seen obsession with the Precursor artifacts, including her amulet, drive people to ruin.  Including her late mentor.  If whoever tried to kill Thomas had one, if not more…  “Explain.”

“I think it mighta been a warnin’,” Thomas admitted when she turned fully.  “Like they was sayin’ they got somethin’ we don’t an’ are wavin’ it in our face.  I dunno what these glowy mysterious things are s’posed ta mean to you, but they must be important since ‘s not just you lookin’ for ‘em.”

“You have no idea,” Arlette admitted.  “Do you have it?”

Thomas nodded and retrieved a small opalescent rod from his waistcoat before tossing it to Arlette.  It felt almost alive, as though it was breathing in her hands, assuring her things were fine as they were and that she could do great things with its aid.  She wanted nothing more than to destroy it and yet knew, somehow, she never would.

“This might… complicate things.”  The Grandmaster tucked the artifact in an inside pocket of her coat, turning to continue on her way back to the Green Dragon before faltering slightly.  She still hadn’t gotten a good explanation from her subordinate and he knew far more than anyone else in their current predicament as a result of his little escapade.  “Why did you go into an abandoned safe house, Thomas?”

He shrugged, but she could see the whites of eyes even under perpetually heavy lids.  “Don’ know.”

“Clearly you were there for a reason.”

“I wanted ta see if any old stakeouts had switched hands,” he said, which Arlette took to mean ‘tried to track down their dark horse’.  Idiot.  “I didn’t wanna go in, though.”  His voice had lowered by now, as if he worried someone might overhear, or as though he was shaken up by more than narrowly escaping a burning building.  “Somethin’ felt wrong, but like I needed ta go in.  Didn’t get it.”  He looked like he wanted to step closer but instead just shifted his weight back and forth.  “Tha’ thing—I don’t—I don’ think we should ‘ave it.  Or look for who found it.  It’s…”  A sigh.  “’M not superstitious, I thought lookin’ for things like your fancy amulet was wastin’ our time, I mean it sounds fantastic, righ’?  An’ now I think we shouldn’ look for ‘em because ‘s dangerous.”

Arlette tilted her head slightly.  “I am not sure we have much choice in the matter, Thomas.”

“It _talked_ ta me.”  Thomas shook his head.  “Nah, tha’s not it.  It changed my mind,” and now he definitely looked afraid.  Arlette didn’t think she’d ever seen Thomas Hickey _afraid_ ; she wouldn’t call him brave, exactly, but when he turned tail it was because he couldn’t win and wanted to get out alive, not because he was cowardly.  Just self-preserving.  But this was real fear.

“You’ve had a long night.  This does not mean you’re not in trouble but we will talk about that later.”  The Grandmaster laid a gloved hand gently on her companion’s shoulder.  “Rest, the Order will have much to do come morning.”

Thomas didn’t look soothed at all but nodded after a pregnant pause.  His mouth twisted like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it, and finally he split off, walking a little too quickly back in the direction of the Green Dragon.  Arlette would follow eventually, but wanted for some reason to go to the burning house.  There would be nothing to investigate, though, so it was a useless idea.  If she wanted to find out more about their attackers she would have to search elsewhere; likely, Thomas’ close call had warned them out of the city.  She sighed through her nose and followed where Thomas had disappeared around a corner.

Despite not wanting to, Arlette had a feeling she knew what she needed to do next.  The artifact was an assuring, eerie weight in her pocket as she walked.  She needed to talk to Willa.

xXx

**Boston, 1761**

Morning came far too soon for Arlette’s tastes.  She didn’t exactly mind rising with the sun, but after waking Willa in the early hours of the morning and poring over the enigmatic artifact that did nothing but unnerve them both for reasons they couldn’t (or perhaps wouldn’t) name.  Alas, with the sun shining far too cheerfully on her face, Arlette woke up long enough to roll over with a groan to escape the light and instead smacked her forehead against Willa’s elbow hard enough to jostle her awake.  The older woman blinked her eyes open and sat up blearily.

“Too early,” she sighed unhappily, making to lay back down and shoving Arlette nearly off the bed in the process.  Despite closing her eyes Willa kept speaking.  “Did you figure out what it’s for?”

“No,” Arlette admitted, muffling a yawn.  “I have an idea, though.”

“For what it’s for?”

The Grandmaster shook her head as she tied her hair back.  “For how to find out.”

She had to admit, Willa was sharp.  The older woman opened one eye to watch her as she dressed.  “You’re not really going looking for them, are you?”  No response, and Willa propped herself up.  “I apologize for this, but you _saw_ what happened to Thomas when he searched.  Imagine what would happen to you, and I know you’re planning to go alone—“

“I know what I’m doing, Willa, thank you,” Arlette replied shortly.

Willa didn’t look at all convinced, mouth twisted in a frown.  “What do you expect us to do, then?”

“Stay together, keep your ears and eyes open.  Send any information you discover to myself or Shay Cormac, he has messengers, you know where to find them.  And, please, stay alive.”  Satisfied with her appearance, Arlette turned back to her sister-in-arms.  “I want to make sure everyone is safe from this threat.”

“It feels as though you don’t include yourself in ‘everyone’, Grandmaster.”

A wry smile.  “Your concern is appreciated, Willa, truly.  I will be fine.”

“And if you’re not?”  Willa stood then, Arlette noting with a bit of pity how her joints seemed stiff with age in the morning hours.  With none of the hesitation she normally expected from others when approaching her, Willa hugged her tightly.  “We would be lost without your guidance.  And our dear friend.”

Arlette slowly extracted herself from the older woman’s grip.  “You won’t be.”

Still not looking assured, Willa nodded nonetheless.  “I would ask you bring someone with you, but I know you’d ignore me.”

“I’m afraid there’s no one I trust enough to undertake something like this,” _not anymore_.  “I think there’s something I thought was over coming back to haunt me, or at the very least something much larger than I’d like to see engulf the Inner Circle.”

“But if it engulfs you—“

“It’s too late for me,” Arlette said helplessly.  No, she’d purposely kept the rest of her brothers and sister as far as she reasonably could from the study of the Precursors after seeing it consume Reginald Birch and then feeling firsthand the seductive allure of all that power.  Because she understood, she could assume their next actions.  Or at least have an idea of who might be involved based on who had once been in Reginald’s pocket and she’d left alive.  Willa looked terribly sad over that but nodded again.  “I’ll be fine, Willa.  This is something I can bear,” she said gently.

“You shouldn’t feel you have to do so alone,” and Willa looked at her with near pity, something that would’ve offended Arlette if the older woman’s soulful blue eyes hadn’t looked so genuine.

She took in a deep breath through her nose.  She didn’t want to explain to Willa why she couldn’t bring anyone along this time, because she worried she’d failed in her last quest to destroy those who had turned her life on a dark, deceitful path, the one that cost her her closest friend and alienated her from the Order that had been her family for so many years.

Arlette had to go alone.  She would rather get herself killed than watch those close to her die.

“I have to go, Willa.  Thank you for your help.”  She set a gentle hand on Willa’s shoulder.  “Take care.”

“You, too.”  Willa sat down on the bed again, not looking pleased per se but clearly not going to argue or get in Arlette’s way.  “I might try to sleep some more.  Your artifact unnerved me, made it hard to sleep.”

Arlette nodded before leaving the room with her travel pack slung over her shoulder and hat shadowing her eyes.  Hopefully no one would bother her this early and she could get a good start before she needed to rest again.  Likely it would be fairly early when her near-sleepless night caught up to her and she needed to stop for rest.  Poor Scratch would need it too, she guessed.  The mare was in good shape, but no longer in her prime.

Said mare was none too pleased when her mistress saddled her up so early, grunting unhappily as Arlette mounted and turned her out to the road.  They walked slowly through town, both still waking up.  There was some remaining smoke trailing thinly into the sky from the abandoned safe house.  Scratch seemed a bit flighty as they got closer, though she had been anxious since her rider tied down the saddlebags, one of which contained the artifact.  Arlette chalked it up to the lingering smell of fire, which would spook any horse.  She didn’t want to think that even her horse sensed something wrong with her plan to discover what the artifact was for.  Carefully steering her away from the smoldering ruins, the Grandmaster tried to see if there were any signs of visitors or tampering after the fire was put out, but she couldn’t see anything from her distance.  Not even in her second sight, though she tried so hard to find a hint of gold in the dark grey.  She’d known the night before it was useless, she needed to go to the source.  Which meant, at the moment, going out into the frontier where the killings had begun and listening for rumors.  Not the most glamorous job for a Templar of her skills and rank, but necessary at this point.  Arlette truly had no place to start other than that.

At least it was quiet and nearly relaxing out at the edges of town, almost like she was riding around her estate on foggy mornings.  Part of her wanted to go back home to Virginia, though she knew it wasn’t truly ‘home’.  Life was simpler there, no Order business, her identity didn’t need to remain a secret.

Not long after Arlette began reminiscing about tea with Caroline and caring for the horses, another rider fell in step with Scratch.  She sighed softly.  “Did Willa put you up to this, Thomas?”

Thomas simply shrugged in reply.  “’Aven’t seen her.”

“So you are just following me, then.”

“Not exactly,” the younger man argued.  “Saw ya leavin’ while I was downstairs.  An’ you’re the one who said ‘a group can defend itself better’n an individual’, righ’?  So, with all due respect Kenway, ‘m comin’ with.”

“You’ve already been hurt once,” Arlette argued, pulling to a stop in front of Thomas to cut him off.  “I will not see any more of my men hurt over this.”  _Whatever ‘this’ is._

Thomas’ horse threw her head and he tugged the reins to get her attention back.  “Yeah, an’ I got hurt ‘cause I ran off by myself.  Whether ya want me to or not, ‘m comin’ with.  ‘M pretty sure I could find ya if you try ta lose me.”

Arlette guessed he was right, even though she figured she could lose him for several days if she tried.  But it didn’t change that she was angry about his impudence.  “I was willing to overlook your insubordination last night because of your injury and the shock of learning the information that had been kept away for your own mental well-being, but this is going too far.  You will listen to me and turn around before you get yourself killed, or _so help me_ I will cripple you here and now and leave you at Church’s doorstep again.”  Her eyes were hard as she stared the younger man down, leaving no room for argument.  “I will not say it again.  Go home, help the others.  I do not need you.”

“No offense, but usually people who say tha’ really do need somebody.”  That only made Arlette angrier, feeling heat wash through her, face thunderous.  How dare he assume he knew what she needed, especially without knowing what she’d already been through.  She refused to be responsible for another ally’s death.

“Go home, Thomas.  Your skills are better put to use in the city.”

“No one’s heard nothin’, though.  Not seen nobody, not heard a thing, I’ve tried ta get information before I gave up.”  Arlette knew that part, Shay had informed her he’d been the one to get Thomas to start looking into their little problem again.  “’M supposin’ you’re lookin’ for information outside Boston.”

No use lying at this point, though her voice exuded confidence in her ability to do it herself.  “I am.”

“No harm in havin’ someone who does that professionally along, eh?”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Beg pardon, but so do I.”

“ _Thomas_ ,” Arlette’s voice grew annoyed.  “It will be far too dangerous.”  A shrug.  “Just stay here.”

“’S not safer ‘ere, you know that.”  As if to make her feel guilty, which didn’t exactly work, Thomas rubbed his healing shoulder.  “There’s somethin’ big ‘appening, innit right?  Not somethin’ one person should do alone, like ya said.”

It was becoming obvious he was stubborn and insubordinate at a level Arlette wasn’t used to, at least over this issue.  Pursing her lips, she didn’t want to give in at all but knew he’d follow and get them both into trouble, or investigate on his own again and get hurt or killed out in the frontier.  There didn’t seem to be a good answer to her predicament.

“Keep up, then.”  Arlette spurred Scratch forward, and, to a mix of chagrin, and perhaps gratitude, heard Thomas following.  Gratitude for his loyalty and concern for her wellbeing after his incidence, and annoyance that he refused to leave her be.  They hadn’t been friends in years, and had never been especially close.  So why?


	9. Traveling Companion: Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well so much for a consistent update schedule. Forgive me and blame university/me being a lazy shite. Thank you for everyone who commented or left kudos, honestly it helps me get my butt back in motion! On the plus side this chapter is slightly longer than normal so maybe that makes up for something kind of (probably not but I tried).
> 
> If you're interested check out enilosa.tumblr.com, one of the sidebar links says "ao3" or "art" for upcoming sketches (now that I have time) pertaining to Shrine!

**Northwest of Boston, Massachusetts, 1761**

The late summer heat was positively oppressive, even as Thomas followed Kenway north.  It wasn’t near as bad as it had been back in late July, but even now as autumn was around the corner the days grew uncomfortable by the time the afternoon came about.  Thomas was glad at least of the cloud cover on their third day of slow riding, but he could do without the humidity.

“Do those look like thunderheads to you, Thomas?”  Kenway called back, pointing over his mare’s lethargic head.

He turned dark eyes up toward the sky.  How Kenway expected him to know the difference between a thundercloud and an impending rainstorm, he hadn’t a clue.  The dark clouds certainly did look ominous, and Horse was anxiously flicking her ears as Kenway’s mare—Itch?  Scratch, that was it—had been before the old girl gave up in the face of the heat.  Both horses had been on edge their whole trip, though, Thomas’ chestnut going so far as to balk, rear, and try to bolt when he spurred her to ride beside the Grandmaster when the road was wide enough.  He blamed the artifact Kenway seemed totally unaffected by.  The damn thing made his skin prickle just knowing they had it, even though it wasn’t doing anything and he wasn’t all that near to it.  It was just weird.

Kenway cleared his throat to get Thomas’ attention again.  “I have a feeling we’ll be riding in the rain at this rate.”

“Prolly,” Thomas replied, squinting at the rapidly building clouds.  They looked dark an heavy and frankly ominous, but then again Thomas had bad associations with rain and storms and tended to avoid them at all costs.  “Maybe we should think ‘bout a place ta camp?”

The Grandmaster shook his head and pointed once more, slightly to the right of the trail.  “Smoke,” he said.

“A town?”

“Farmhouse, at the very least.  I’d like to get that far before stopping, it would be good to know if we are headed the right direction.”  Kenway glanced back at his companion.  “Fancy a bit of investigation in the rural rumor mill?”

Thomas didn’t even care if he had to work, so long as they got to stay someplace dry and hopefully with pillows.  He hated sleeping in the woods.  “Fine by me.”

Satisfied with that answer, Kenway spurred Scratch into a trot that she didn’t seem too keen on, and, ignoring Horse’s indignant squeal and kick, Thomas followed suit.  Neither of the pair wanted to go particularly fast given the weather, but it was a much brisker pace compared to the plodding along of before that would hopefully allow them to beat the rain.  When the homestead with the smoking chimney came into view between the trees both slowed down so as not to appear terribly threatening, an effort Thomas thought was probably useless given both were armed to the teeth and Kenway still had the etched rifle strapped over Scratch’s haunches out in the open.  They just had to hope this was an area that had been spared the horrors of finding dead bodies in unlikely places.

A young boy was outside tending to squabbling chickens when they arrived on the dusty road leading between the four houses and barn.  Kenway hailed him while pulling his mare to a halt, about to dismount when the boy sprinted back to the house, dropping the feed for the chickens in his haste.  The Grandmaster’s face fell into a frown as he did and the other man glanced at Thomas, who shrugged.

“’M guessin’ they don’ get much friendly visitors, of late.”

“Hmm.”  Kenway didn’t seem dissuaded from trying to talk to the people of the homestead though.  “Children are often shy, Thomas.”

“I wasn’t,” he argued.

“That somehow does not surprise me, but I also doubt you were ‘most children’.”

That was true.  “Point taken.”

Kenway fully dismounted and tugged Scratch along beside him toward the abandoned chickens, Thomas also dropping from his saddle as the first fat drops of rain hit against the ground.  In the distance a bolt of lightning struck.  While Thomas was glad they were taking shelter from the storm, Scratch apparently believed she was about to be sacrificed to the storm and broke from Kenway’s hold, bolting for the trees again.

“Wait!”  Kenway began to give chase but quickly gave up and turned to Thomas with a sigh.  “Give me your horse.  I’ll catch Scratch, go talk to the family.”

Thomas shook his head quickly.  “Horse will throw you, ‘sides ‘m guessin’ they’ll trust an upperclass bloke more’n me—wha’s that look all about?”

Kenway squinted at him, looking somewhat amused even as rain dripped over his face.  “Your horse is called ‘Horse’?”

“Shut it,” he muttered.  He didn’t have time to come up with some witty name for a mare he technically owned but barely ever saw!  Besides, what kind of a name was ‘Scratch’?  Where did Kenway even _get_ that name?  He’d be the sort of guy to name a cat ‘Paws’.  At least Thomas was upfront about how unoriginal his names were.

Biting his cheek against what looked suspiciously like a smile, Kenway simply nodded and waved Thomas along.  “If I signal you, forget Scratch.  She’ll find her way back in time.”

With an affirmative jerk of his head, Thomas turned Horse despite her tossing head and took off at an even lope through the trampled underbrush.  He had to keep ducking under branches and couldn’t help wondering murderously if Scratch could’ve chosen a more obnoxious path through the woods.  Another rumble of thunder announced a downpour, and before he knew it Thomas was soaked through to the bone and regretting not just leaving Kenway’s horse to its own devices.  If the Grandmaster was so sure she’d find her way home, why did Thomas feel so insistent on bringing the errant mare back to the homestead?  He had a feeling he knew why, though.  Kenway had looked so upset and concerned for her when she bolted, running after her and only stopping when he lost sight of her in the brush.  Clearly, the horse mattered to him a lot, it was shown through how he acted toward her and how he’d kept her despite how grey she’d become.  Thomas didn’t have that sort of sentimentality; if Horse ran, he’d probably shout ‘good riddance’.

As if she could hear his thoughts, the chestnut threw her head indignantly.  Thomas couldn’t find it in himself to feel too poorly for her, too concerned with thoughts of how stupid he’d been to not dump this venture on Kenway, who was no doubt enjoying a warm, dry house while getting doted on by the owner’s eligible daughter.  Assuming they had one.

After what felt like hours in the drenching rain, even though if he had to guess rationally it was probably more like fifteen or twenty minutes, Thomas finally caught sight of Scratch.  The mare’s eyes rolled in her head as she tugged against the thorny bush her reins had tangled in.  Another flash of lightning and she tried to rear, neck swinging wildly against the tangle of branches and leather keeping her tethered.  The Templar dismounted quickly, assuming Horse would just start eating some leaves or trampled grass.  Scratch would just hurt herself at this rate and he had not agreed to ride through a downpour just to find a horse who’d broken her neck out of fear of a storm.  “Easy,” Thomas called softly, hands outstretched to the fearful mare.  The bay’s eyes still rolled and her ears pinned but she allowed him near enough to free her reins.  Holding tight to the slick leather, he began leading her back to Horse, who expectedly was chewing happily on some late summer clover.  After tying the two horses together he spurred them back toward the homestead at a trot.

Of course, just as they arrived, the rain stopped.  Just his luck _he’d_ get soaked.

Thomas tied both horses to one of the fence posts, ignoring the indignant clucking of chickens as he did, before knocking on the door he’d seen Kenway disappear into.  After some shuffling and what sounded like an assurance from Kenway, said man opened the door.  “Did you find Scratch?”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Thomas nodded.  “Got us all soaked doin’ it, though,” he groused.  Kenway looked almost amused at Thomas’ pouting over the fact, and Thomas would have been too most likely if he wasn’t the one dripping wet.  “Lemme in, will ya?”

“It should be fine.  But we will not stay long.”

So much for pillows.

Thomas didn’t let the disappoint show in favor of being relieved to get a chance to dry off and sit somewhere that wasn’t in the saddle of a temperamental mare.  Horse was a fine mount, quick, intelligent, but also ornery as any mule he’d met.  The kid from earlier wasn’t present in the sitting room where who Thomas assumed his parents sat.  A wolfhound raised his head in response to the new guest and he involuntarily stepped back half a pace, eyes not leaving the heavy brown eyes that Thomas supposed were probably friendly but wasn’t about to chance on.

“Something wrong?”  Oh great, now Kenway was giving him a weird look.  Thomas chose not to answer, just shaking his head lest he insult the dog or owners.  He just really hated dogs.

A lot.

As soon as the old dog stood up, eager to say hello to one or both of the visitors, Thomas decided he really couldn’t handle the situation.  He really, _really_ hated dogs.

“I might wait outside,” Thomas said.  “Check an’ make sure Scratch’s okay.”

There was that _look_ again, like Kenway didn’t quite know exactly what was going on but could see straight through him and was picking apart his brain to figure it out.  It was uncomfortable to be under such scrutiny.  Thankfully it ended after another moment and the other man nodded one, giving Thomas permission to leave.  “I’ll be but a moment.”

With that, Thomas nodded to the homeowners briefly and left back through the front door, nearly tripping over one of the chickens on the raised porch.  He cursed quietly but colorfully at the unruffled poultry.  Clearly he was stressed, if a stupid chicken could elicit such a response from him.

“Are you leaving?”  The Templar’s head jerked up.  Just the kid from earlier.  He was sitting on the ground by the chickens’ pen, holding one of the clucking birds gently in his lap.  Big, earnest eyes tracked Thomas, removing any possibility of him escaping the situation without answering.  It seemed like there was an answer the kid wanted, or a question he was asking but not _really_ asking, and as well as Thomas could read people he hated these guessing games.  He always answered wrong—he was the one who asked questions and figured out disguises.  But not to children.  Lying to children just seemed wrong, unless it was to protect them.

“We’re not stayin’ the night,” Thomas said.

The boy shifted a bit and released the chicken, who was crooning plaintively.  “So you are leaving.”

Didn’t this kid run away when he saw the pair of Templars arrive?  “Isn’ that a good thing?  Fewer mouths to feed.”

“Did Da ask you to look for the stealers?”

Stealers?  “Thieves, ya mean?”  The boy nodded.  “Uh, I dunno.  My… friend’s been talkin’ ta your da, I was lookin’ for the horses.”

“Your friend is scary.”

Thomas barked a laugh.  “Don’ I know it, an’ maybe don’ say it to ‘is face.”  Another nod from the kid.  “Good bloke, though.  ‘E means well, I promise.  Enough ‘bout my friend though.”  He squatted down in front of the kid.  “If we’re gonna talk, I should know your name, eh?”

“Martin.  What’s yours?”

Usually Thomas replied with a fake name, but he’d never known Kenway to do that, and it would look weird if he referred to Thomas by a name he didn’t give out to Martin.  “Thomas.”

“Okay.  Are you looking for the thieves?”

“Uh, kind of.”  Probably not the same people this boy was thinking of, he was likely talking about livestock thieves and not mysterious cult-like murderers.

Martin nodded seriously.  “Good.  They scare me a bunch.”

“’M sure you’re plenty brave.”

“I try, I don’t want Mum to be scared, so I don’t cry or anything.  But I wish they’d go away.  They come and take stuff sometimes but mostly they just look around.”

That was weird.  Thomas felt a chill.  “Do ya know where they come from?”

“No.  They just disappear.  Da and Mum were talking real quiet and scared about it.  I think they know who it is and don’t want me to get scared, but I’m already scared so they should just tell me.  And then your friend showed up and they got all quiet and told me to leave because it’s secret what they’re talking about.  I hate secrets.  I want to help out but I’m too little, Mum says.  So will you go?”

Very strange.  “I’ll ask my friend what ‘e thinks, okay, Martin?”

“Okay.”   Martin stood up and look around for a moment before turning back to Thomas.  “Do you promise?”

“Huh?”

“Promise you’ll tell your friend about them?”

“Yeah, he’ll want ta hear.”

“Shake on it?”  And a small hand was in front of Thomas’ face.

A bemused smile crossed his lips and he took the tiny hand in his own with a firm shake.  Martin finally looked appeased by that and smiled back.

Kenway finally emerged from the house as Martin released Thomas’ hand and ran off around the house.  “Everything alright, Thomas?  I trust you haven’t been harassing the children here.”

“Never!”  Thomas looked mock-affronted.  “What kind of scoundrel d’ya take me for?”

“I would rather not answer that.”  Kenway checked all of Scratch’s straps before mounting up.  “But what _were_ you talking about with the Cramers’ son?”

“’E was talkin’ about thieves,” Thomas adjusted himself in the saddle, Horse tossing her head unhappily to have him back in the saddle.  “Said ‘is parents were concerned, apparently his da ‘as been askin’ around to find someone willin’ ta go after ‘em.  Wanted ta know if we was going after ‘em.”

“I heard something similar,” Kenway admitted.  “I’ll explain along the road.”

That didn’t sound too good.  Thomas turned Horse back toward the road, following Kenway along and wondering what exactly was going on at the homestead.  “Wanna clue me in?”

A long sigh from Kenway.  “The Cramers are sympathizers to our cause.  I have never met them personally, but they are aware of our existence and have housed other brothers or offered information.  In this case, they have heard about the same things we’ve been experiencing.”

“Doesn’ make sense why the kid’s scared, though.  Thieves isn’ what we seen, we keep findin’ bodies, not stolen livestock.”

“They’ve been saying ‘thieves’ so their son wouldn’t worry.”

“Martin,” Thomas said.

“Sorry?”

“’Is name’s Martin.”

Kenway glanced over his shoulder, looking confused for a moment.  “Yes.  Well.  Martin’s parents have been concerned because the ‘thieves’ have been more like scouts, they think.  The weird part is, it’s been only one person and they disappear suddenly if noticed.  So, the Cramers wanted my help, in the hope we could find them and avert an attack.  They worry their bodies might be found next, though I doubt it.  More pressing,” Kenway said brightly, “I didn’t know you had a soft spot for children, Thomas.”

Thomas scowled a bit.  “I don’ see ow tha’s more important than findin’ potential murders.”

“We’re not looking for the scout.”

“We’re not?”  Now Thomas felt lost.  And a little dumb.

“No doubt the scout is nearby and will see us or hear of us soon enough.  I intend to draw him out.”

“Usin’ our lives as bait.”  Dodgy as ever, with Kenway.  As much as he didn’t relish the thought of potentially dying just to bring someone out in the open, it was the sort of plan Kenway used to propose to him, knowing full well only Thomas was reckless and impulsive enough to try it.  He liked it when things felt almost normal again.

“Really, though.  Do you have some secret bastard I don’t know about?”

Except that poking fun at him.  It was good-natured, sure, but it still felt weird.  “Nah, I jus’… like kids.”

“Hmm.”

Great, he was waiting for an answer and knew Thomas would start babbling.  Well, he’d win this one.  Kenway wasn’t going to get the satisfaction.  “So.  Thief.”

“Nothing to do about it, until he shows himself.”

Silence settled over the pair of them.  It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, or a tense one, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.  Both knew they were waiting for something to happen, and as such it was hard to completely relax.  Not that Thomas was anxious around Kenway (or, no more so than he was around any of the trained killers he knew) but there were many things to anticipate during their trip.  The potential of dying at any moment, their ‘thief’ that Kenway seemed sure would try and attack them, the uncomfortable knowledge they were getting along but still at a distance to one another.  Thomas just had to thank whatever lucky stars he had left that the unrequited, inappropriate feelings he’d harbored for Kenway for so long had dissipated.  There were still moments, of course, but after so many years they’d lessened enough so the pangs of loneliness and desire to be around him, which he couldn’t be more grateful for.

Especially while they were on the road together in such close proximity.  Or as close as Kenway let anyone get, at least.  Thomas still hadn’t seen the man even take off his enormous coat, even though no doubt he did.  He had to, right?  He wouldn’t _sleep_ in it, there were too many buckles and shit, it would be uncomfortable.

The silence continued, broken only by the sounds of their horses and gear.  For some reason, it bothered Thomas—something was missing.  No, he was just used to the constant ambient noise of the city, nothing was wrong.

He was convinced until Kenway slowed his mare to a stop, looking around slowly.  “Do you hear that?” He hissed.

Thomas strained but heard nothing, still.  Now feeling more on edge, he shook his head.  Kenway didn’t look comforted at all.  Thomas wondered, feeling his skin prickle, if it wasn’t the artifact Kenway insisted on keeping on his person.  He still hated it and couldn’t understand why anyone would want it near them, but it wasn’t his place to question the Grandmaster on it.  He generally didn’t seem affected by it, anyway, certainly not as affected as Thomas had been.  But he was hearing something that wasn’t there, now, so maybe it was affecting him.

“It’s too quiet,” Thomas said.

Kenway didn’t look comforted.  “It is.”  For a moment Thomas swore he saw the other man’s eyes change color, just for a moment, before he turned away.  The whole situation was beginning to really bother him.

The stayed still another minute before Kenway urged his horse on again and they took to the brush, weaving between trees and moving diagonal to the road.  It was still quiet, no birds, no animal sounds aside for the horses’ breathing.  Thomas had a bad feeling they were waiting for something now, like Kenway was bringing them somewhere secluded to draw out someone who was following them.  It had to be the same person Martin brought up, there was no sign of anyone but them and yet Thomas knew he was being watched.  It wasn’t like the artifact, which made him uncomfortable because it seemed alive, which sounded crazy to him so he tried not to think of it too much, but very much like there was a person behind them.

Or in front, he supposed, when Horse reared and tried to bolt as a man with a sword drawn emerged from the trees just ahead.  Drawing his pistol in the same moment as the man stepped toward the horses, he fire a shot that… missed.  He thought.  There was no way he missed and yet the man continued on toward them, another man dressed similarly joining the first.

“Run,” Kenway recommended.  Thomas didn’t need to be told twice as he counted again and found there were four men all approaching them.  They couldn’t fight in such tight quarters if, for some reason, bullets didn’t work.

Both horses didn’t need much urging to gallop through the underbrush, barely dodging trees as they did.  Thomas spent more time ducking to avoid branches than actually steering Horse, but he supposed it really didn’t matter where they were going as long as it was far away from the weird cultish group of armed men.  Who dressed exactly the same, beside the British Army?  It was a little creepy, honestly, and Thomas would probably be more put off by the eerie similarity of the men if he was less focused on escaping a likelihood of dying.

At least the horses stayed close together.  For once Thomas thought the whole ‘stick together, strength in numbers’ thing wasn’t utter bullshit.  Even if they split up and the group split off, Thomas wasn’t certain he could fend off two or more armed men immune to a bullet through the skull.  He’d never had the balance or focus to excel at swordplay, and while he could usually improvise, he doubted he could find any blunt objects aside from heavy rocks and maybe a stick to fight with.  Entertaining though it would theoretically be, it didn’t sound too terribly appealing or spectacularly smart or even like it might succeed.  Not that running full tilt through the woods and getting progressively more and more lost was an especially great plan either, but it worked better than fighting until they could figure out what happened back there.

Horse shrieked and leapt to the side, jostling Thomas off balance.  He tried to regain his seating but a burst of pressure, like getting hit by a wave, threw him from Horse’s back as she stumbled and fell as well under the assault.  There’s no way that could have happened—right?  Of course not, that sort of thing wasn’t possible.  Air didn’t work like the ocean.  Dense though he could be, Thomas was fairly confident he knew how being on land worked.  So it was not possible, Horse must’ve just lost her footing.

And yet the air still felt electric and alive and there was another man advancing on them and Scratch was rearing as Kenway tried to rein her back in and he hurt all over, like his nerves were burning and every bone was vibrating, and was sure he could feel more ripples through the air.

Shaking involuntarily, Thomas decided he was way in over his head.

Near as quick as she’d dropped, Horse regained her footing and sent a hind hoof through the air, landing a kick solidly against the man advancing steadily on Thomas.  Clearly hurt the man dropped his weapon and fumbled something metallic in his other hand as he stumbled forward.  Thomas took the momentary lapse to stop being a coward metaphorically pissing himself on the ground and at least scramble to his feet.  He really wished Horse hadn’t run off with all of his supplies and weaponry beyond his pistols and a knife in his boot.  He could use something sturdier.  And extra ammunition, considering he parched one pistol with absolutely no results.  If that continued he was deeply fucked.

At least he seemed to be fairly ignored by their attacking group.  He supposed after falling and nearly getting crushed by his fool horse they could assume he was dead, or after his show of being frozen in terror on the ground they might not see him as a threat compared to Kenway, whose horse was still dancing and lashing out while her rider tried apparently in vain to gut one of the men surrounding them.

The man Horse had kicked seemed to regain his bearings and went for his sword again, grabbing Thomas’ attention back from his Grandmaster.  Barely thinking, Thomas drew his pistol again and slammed the butt into the swordsman’s elbow.  There was a muffled yell and a satisfying crunch in reply, which startled him as he realized no one else was making such sounds.

The five—maybe six, he wasn’t exactly counting—men surrounding Kenway certainly weren’t responding like men who had been lacerated by an excellent swordsman.  The only sounds beyond the frightened pulse in Thomas’ ears and the sounds Scratch was making were the ones that came from the brief encounter Thomas just had.

Kenway looked too concerned with trying to get closer to the eerily quiet and still men while also keeping his seat give how Scratch bucked to notice what now seemed obvious to Thomas.

“They’re not real,” he muttered.  None of them except the man in front of him.  “Kenway!”  At least now the other man looked over at Thomas, brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and what almost looked like concern for his desperate tone.  “They’re not real!”

Thomas barely dodged a fist aimed for his jaw, the knuckles instead clipping across his temple.  It jarred him but he was fairly sure there was no lasting damage; maybe a bruise later.  Just as viciously he swung out a leg, catching his opponent’s ankles and sending him down onto his injured arm with a howl.  Unconcerned by the man’s pain he kicked him solidly in the stomach while he was down before moving to his level.  As he did the man weakly lashed out with a knee into Thomas’ thigh, gaining enough of a pause to awkwardly scoot himself backward across the ground with a pained grunt.  Undeterred, Thomas grabbed the lapel of his coat before slugging him solidly across the face, grinning involuntarily at the crunch of cartilage and the way his skin bruised almost instantly.

“St—“ the man cut off abruptly in whatever he was going to say after another hit.  Better that way, he didn’t care what he had to say and honestly Thomas was just stalling for when Kenway got Scratch past the fake attackers.  He wasn’t about to make a judgment call on whether or not this man was valuable to them alive or not, that was not his area of expertise.  The man spat out what looked like a tooth and tried again.  “Stop!”

“Yeah, ‘m gonna listen ta the bloke bleedin’ on the ground,” Thomas replied sarcastically, a ‘what are you going to do about’ look plastered on his face.

In response the man didn’t bother saying anything, instead managing to dislodge one of his arms from under Thomas’ weight and hitting him solidly across the temple with the metal—ball?  He had been holding earlier.  Thomas grunted and dropped like a stone, vision swimming.  Barely, he caught himself before completely hitting the ground, only to feel another solid hit across his entire body.  It had the same feeling like whatever had knocked Horse off her feet, the same crackling energy and sensation not unlike a wash of flames, or shattered glass.  There was no good comparison, honestly, only that it hurt but above all terrified him to the point his mind refused to work.

Dimly he was aware of Kenway yelling at him past the ringing in his ears as he shoved himself back upright.  “I told you not to do that,” the man said as sinisterly as someone speaking past a mouth full of blood could.  Thomas glowered and tried to make a move for his pistol again only to feel another pulse of… whatever it was crack across him.  Frozen now he wasn’t sure what would happen or what he could do other than sit and wait for the man’s whims.

Maybe that _was_ the only option.

He had a bad feeling there were no better choices.  Whatever the metal thing was it had the same allure the stupid artifact Kenway was still carrying around had.  Unlike the seemingly innocuous object they had, however, whatever their assailant was using was on a different tier.

He wasn’t strong enough to fight whatever happened.  It was easier, better, if he didn’t resist.  He could follow orders well, he could be a good Templar and do that much.  It was a world of kill or be killed, and, honestly, he would rather not fight it any more than need be.  Unbidden he glanced toward the hilt of the knife in his boot.  That was always an option, too.  He could use it on his companion, then on himself, and none would be the wiser until weeks later.  The world would keep spinning.

Frighteningly, the only part that made him want to rebel was the idea of hurting Haytham.

Despite the ringing and what he could’ve sworn was murmuring, urging him to listen to the jumbled thoughts that almost didn’t feel like his, in his ears, Thomas was still dimly aware of Kenway yelling something, panicked, and then acutely aware of the man in front of him losing focus and turning toward whatever Kenway was doing.  He could feel the force of a powder keg exploding but without the noise—in fact it was nearly silent, just a whisper of a breeze.

Thomas couldn’t be sure if it was the man’s loss of focus on him or whatever Kenway had just done but the heavy weight holding his joints and limbs captive released just enough for his senses to return and some of the painful throb to abate.  He still ached down into his bones but it was no longer as intense or continually renewed.  Turning his head just slightly he could see the false attackers shatter and Kenway holding the artifact that now looked like a knife made of, mad as it sounded even to him, light.

Apparently realizing he was losing the fight, the man with the orb began running.  Three strides away from where he started he fell, blood blossoming across the back of his coat from the bullet Thomas lodged in his spine.

So much for waiting on Kenway’s discretion.

Thomas faltered a bit as he stood slowly, pressing his hands to his temples in the hopes it would help and yet knowing it really wouldn’t.  Kenway walked with Scratch past him to where the man had fallen, dismounted to check his pulse and pockets, then turned back to Thomas.

“…Are you alright?”

A large part of Thomas wanted to spit back that _no_ , he bloody well wasn’t, he was regretting ever getting involved with Kenway in the first place now and wanted an explanation as to what exactly had just happened.  “’S no worse’n a hangover,” he lied.

“You’ve lost your mount.”

“We’ll find her, ‘m sure she’s back at the homestead stealin’ food.”

“Then we’ll go back.”  Kenway led Scratch over to Thomas, glancing at him again and he had to wonder if he looked even half as bad as he felt given the queer look on Kenway’s face.  “Are… would you rather ride Scratch until we get your horse back?”

Thomas shook his head and immediately regretted the motion and how it jarred him.  Even that simple motion hurt him.  “Let’s just go.”

“If you’re certain.”

They walked slowly in silence for a bit until Thomas had to ask.  “Did ya take the metal thing from ‘im?  An’ tha’…” he gestured vaguely, looking for the words and finding none.  “Explosion, was tha’ you?”

Kenway breathed deeply.  “It was the artifact you found, it’s some sort of weapon as we thought all the Precursor artifacts are.”  That was news to Thomas, he assumed they were some sort of expensive bauble.  Or, he’d been told once by Willa, a key to an actual weapon, not weapons themselves.  “And yes, I did take it.”

“ _Why_?”  Thomas never wanted to see the damn thing again.

“It’s important it’s kept from the wrong hands, you saw what it could do.”

“’Ow do we know _we’re_ the right hands?”

“We don’t,” Kenway said slowly.  He looked very uncomfortable.  “But I would never use it to try and make someone—hurt themselves.”

Ah.  So it hadn’t just been a thought, it hadn’t even been his own thoughts.  Thomas was chilled as he finally noticed that indeed the knife that had been in his boot was no longer there, hopefully discarded somewhere in the underbrush they were leaving behind.  He supposed he was lucky it hadn’t worked, and it made the panicked tones he dimly remembered coming from Kenway make much more sense.

“It’s not too late for you to leave, you know.  I won’t hold it against you.”  Thomas turned toward his companion, startled by the weakness of the words and even more so by the heaviness of his frame.  “This is not going to end easily.  I am going to find whoever sent our attacker and gave him that artifact.  If you come with I cannot promise something like what just happened or… or worse, won’t occur.”

Thomas never wanted to go through any of that again.  He was very aware of how unprepared he was for this journey and the reality of standing by his Grandmaster.  And yet when he recalled the abhorrent idea given to him by the artifact of killing him, or the thought of Kenway facing something like that alone, he couldn’t find it in him to leave.  He felt guilty and even afraid of losing a friend, one better than he’d ever had, one who’d had saved his life more than once, and couldn’t imagine how much worse he’d feel if it actually happened.

“Couldn’t get rid of me if ya tried,” he said, a cocksure half-smile on his lips.

Kenway returned the look.  “Then we have our work cut out for us, I suppose.”


	10. Traveling Companion: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it only took two years but I'm off hiatus and looking to finish this fic in the next few months. I can't guarantee timeline but I am coming back to this and I won't be going on a long hiatus again! Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me and supported this fic despite the long waits.
> 
> I know this chapter is pretty short but the next one is gonna be exciting I promise. Also enjoy some art, finally!

** **

**[[source]](http://vvvici.tumblr.com/post/164903987633/tfw-you-come-back-from-a-two-year-hiatus) **

**North of Boston, 1761**

A cool head, even in crisis, made for a good leader.  Purposeful, decisive actions in such situations kept those serving under one’s command from becoming fearful or questioning the fitness of their commander.

And so, despite Thomas’ many, and _loud_ , complaints, Arlette made an executive decision to return to the Cramer house, where they now stayed, at least for the night.

Her associate was so clearly rattled by the experience earlier he couldn’t stop his hands shaking, and kept glancing around in a way she’d only seen Shay do, back when he was still being hunted frequently by Assassin stalkers: pupils moving rapidly around, shoulders tight.  As if he was about to jump from his skin.  And Horse had run off and they’d yet to see hair nor hide of her.  But he kept _insisting_ , like a bloodhound after catching a scent, that they needed to keep on going and put an end to the whole thing.  Admirable dedication, she had to admit.  Or perhaps it was merely pretending at a brave face.

It didn’t matter in the end, because Arlette ignores him completely.  And despite his words, Thomas follows doggedly alongside her all the way back to the surprised, but grateful, Cramers.

“Thank you for having us for the night,” Arlette told Mister Cramer as the missus continued stirring a pot of stew.  “If there is anything we can do to make it up, tell me immediately.”

“You’ve done plenty already, Master Kenway.”

The missus kept her mouth shut, but from the way she occasionally threw somewhat suspicious glances at Thomas as if she expected him to cause trouble, or that he’d been privy to the trouble before, Arlette had the feeling she would consider their debt quite paid for if Thomas slept in the hay shed.  A part of the Templar was tempted to make a comment of some sort, but decided to let it go as Thomas didn’t seem to notice.

Actually, the man was entirely oblivious, talking to the Cramer boy.

“You got rid of the stealers?”  The boy’s voice was little more than a whisper, and if she wasn’t right next to Thomas, she might not have even heard it.

Her associate nodded and patted the boy’s shoulders.  “You did good, Martin, telling us.  Couldn’t a’ done it without ya.”

Mister Cramer merely shrugged in response, rising to get bowls for his wife—who insistently waved him off and threw another seemingly unrelated glower Thomas’ way as Martin dragged him to see something or other another room over—before sitting down again across from the Grandmaster.  “Honest.  This is nothing compared to the peace of mind we have now.”

A small wriggling guilt crawled into her gut.  There should be nothing comforting about this development, the Pieces of Eden in her bag tugging her awareness even a room over.  The pain wrought already gave her a sick feeling it was only the start of something even worse, but damned if she could figure it out.  It had taken her far too long to uncover the last deceit of Reginald and his allies in the Order, and ended ruinously.  Something of so much larger a scale might spell disaster for the colonies, with Pieces of Eden involved.

Funny, to think even a few years ago she’d not think these Pieces so acutely dangerous.  Between Reginald’s obsession and the horrors she’d heard from Shay, her mind had changed near completely.  And Thomas…

No, no, not thoughts for over dinner.  Especially not with how relaxed and happy her companion seemed, playing a seemingly made up game using shiny stones with the Cramers’ child.  No sign of his fear from only a few hours before—until the large, shaggy dog walked in to beg for dinner scraps and he fell from his chair with a crash an undignified ‘eep’ sound.

xXx

Arlette could hear Thomas snoring softly, surely, steadily, from the living room where he’d been put up.  Even over the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the deep breathing of the wolfhound stretched alongside her, she could focus on it.  While it might have been a bother to hear normally, tonight it was nothing but a comfort.

Truthfully, she was rattled by the events of the day and wanted time to rest, compartmentalize the fears in a way she had not since finding Holden dead.  Perhaps no one had died today, but…

Unbidden, the memory rushed to the forefront of her mind.  A shudder travelled icily down her spine, trying simultaneously to banish the thoughts and bring them into sharper focus to try and make sense of the event.

_The image of Thomas, a rapturous look on his face at odds with the hollowness in his eyes—usually so bright, vivacious, his expression full of laughter or malice or childish petulance, but never this adoration.  Never this kind of primal fear.  The bright, crisp edge of his own knife, gleaming as the fading sunlight caught the blade, raised to press against his own throat.  The horrid knowledge, from her own experience, of what would come next – the horrible pit in her stomach, the understanding that this man she trusted, considered a_ friend _, was about to die—_

Her breath caught, and she pressed her face into the pillow for a moment, breathing out until she felt calm.  The wolfhound raised its head and whined lowly before licking Arlette’s cheek repeatedly until she rolled over to push the dog away, stifling laughter ( _it felt wrong to laugh, after today_ ) before curling an arm over the hound’s side.  She had to remind herself if was not all bad, however.  Good had come along with the terror.  They now had two Pieces of Eden, it seemed, and perhaps a lead by the next evening if they were lucky.  Most important, she’d not failed as a Grandmaster.  She’d not lost her dear friend.

The dog stretched and laid its head down as Arlette stroked him distractedly.

_This is almost as nice as sharing a bed with someone.  I should get a dog._ Arlette’s eyes drifted shut, body relaxing into sleep.  A small smile tugged her lips, focusing on the sound of Thomas’ breathing the next room over, and matching her own until finally she’d convinced her body to sleep.

**Far northwest Massachusetts, unknown town, 1761**

“I ‘ave ta hand it to the bastards, they’re awful good at disappearin’.”  Thomas muttered.  Arlette had to sigh in frustration, though incredibly quietly.  While she’s be more vocal in her agreement, she didn’t want to look as though she’d given up—one could never be too careful about who was watching.  Especially in a tavern like this one, halfway between a tiny settlement and even more nothingness out in the frontier.  Usually places like this were used as meeting points by Assassins, Templars, and all other manner of unsavory characters who might report to either side.

Which only frustrated her further.  Arlette had been sure they’d be able to weasel information or rumors at the very least from someone loitering about the tavern.  But so far she recognized no one as an ally, and Thomas had no luck finding anyone either though he seemed to be getting cozy with the locals.

“Heard anything useful?  Anything at all?”

“Unless ya wanna know ‘ow the cabbages are growin’, no.”

Arlette resisted the urge to groan, her entire body radiating irritation.  “Isn’t this your _job_ , Thomas?”

“Can’t blame me if nobody got anything worthwhile ta say,” Thomas snapped, clearly just as exasperated by the situation.

He had a point, Arlette admitted grudgingly.  Even the Cramers hadn’t anything especially valuable to tell her beyond their suspicion of dangerous scouts, and they actually had ties to the invisible war.  All they’d gotten from the Cramers was a nice bed for the night before the missus wanted them gone.  Thomas joked it was probably his fault, but privately Arlette couldn’t help but figure his jumpiness and dislike of their dog did factor into their being shuttled out at first light.

Yet she needed some outlet for all this anger, and given she didn’t have an enemy to throttle nor want to start a bar fight unless _strictly_ necessary, though ‘necessary’ had variable definitions, more so the longer they went without a proper lead.  And so, snapping off at Thomas became her best way to cool her head for the last few days.  The man usually gave as good as he got, however, until Arlette called insubordination.

She sighed deeply.  “I suppose we’re back to square one, then.”

“Combin’ the forest ain’t gonna go us any good, we already done that for too long,” Thomas muttered into his tankard.

Arlette placed a hand on the wooden edge of the tankard and pushed it down firmly.  “Neither will getting drunk.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, earning a stern look that did seem to cow the worst of his impudence.  Miracle of miracles, he even set the drink down.  “I know my limits.”

“You’ve already had one, we agreed to only _one_.”  Thomas snorted but didn’t fight Arlette’s authoritative tone.  “We’re headed out now anyway.  Come along.”

Her subordinate made an unhappy noise in the back of his throat but stood and followed the Grandmaster out, waving back at a rather large gentleman who then returned to his conversation with a woman and her daughter about his garden.  _That must be where Thomas got ‘cabbages’ from_ , Arlette realized.  She would not have pegged such a man to have a hobby garden.  Thomas certainly found some interesting sorts, didn’t he?  It seemed each day he’d met some new person with an odd hobby or quirk.  And usually a bit of a chequered past.

Scratch snorted and nudged her rider’s chest and pockets as soon as she stepped out of the pub.  Arlette felt a minor pang of guilt having run out of treats for her faithful mare, but there wasn’t much she could do for it now.  She swung into the saddle shortly after Thomas managed to mount the chestnut.  The horse—Horse, though Arlette kept trying to come up with a better name as Thomas refused to, but to no avail— had become more anxious since their fight, though neither Templar could blame her—when she’d turned up the farrier worried she’d lamed herself and beyond that managed to cut her side and shoulder open when she fell.  No doubt the memory of injury caused her trouble each time the saddle settled across her back, and beyond that both horses seemed unnaturally attuned to the Precursor artifacts, growing fearful for a while whenever Thomas and Arlette switched their packs to give one mare a break from the sense of impending doom apparently instilled in them by the objects.

“I say we return to the area near the Cramers’ homestead,” the Grandmaster said as she checked Scratch’s tack.

Thomas tapped his foot, nervously or thoughtfully it was hard to tell.  “Maybe we oughta check along the coast this time, ‘stead of goin’ more inland.”

Arlette gave him a confused look; there’d been no indication on the man with the cabbages he was a sailor or spent any time near the sea, prompting her companion to continue with a raised eyebrow.  Thomas shrugged before continuing.  “If it was me, I’d ‘ave my base of operations ‘round other people and trade routes, see.  Easier to hear ‘bout things, right?  An’ if they got any business with smugglers lookin’ for these artifacts, like us Templars do, then chances are these bastards’ll be someplace smugglers hide out.”

Despite her efforts, Arlette couldn’t contain the note of astonishment in her voice.  “That is… actually quite good, Thomas.”

A gruff chuckle escaped the Irishman.  “Surprise meself sometimes too,” he replied, good-natured if a little sarcastic.  And was it Arlette’s imagination or was he blushing?  Preening beneath her praise, perhaps.  “More likely ta hear some gossip out that way, too, what with more people comin’ in an’ out of those ports.”

Arlette nodded, spurring Scratch to a long-stride trot.  Thomas made plenty of good points, and it would be easier to get a letter out to the rest of the Order from the coast, as well, and resupply.  “That way, then.”

xXx

“Afternoon, Master Kenway,” a very familiar voice turned Arlette’s head and she straightened from her place leaning against a wall, watching Thomas work the market.

A small smile tugged her lips for half a second before disappearing again.  “Captain Cormac.”  The man doffed an imaginary hat, and Arlette returned the gesture.  The Irishman couldn’t contain the grin to see their joke continued.  “I’m surprised to see you this far south.  Aren’t your usual hunting grounds more toward Halifax than Boston?”

“Usually,” he admitted.  Joining the Grandmaster, he glanced over the marketplace with a wary eye and stiff demeanor.  Arlette had never seen him relax other than while he was at sea, too anxious even now that the Brotherhood of Assassins was gone to let down his guard for even a moment.  She supposed being hunted for years by people who all but disappeared when they wanted to would make anyone lose their trust in the general populace.  No doubt the recent developments on disappearing thieves and murderers only exacerbated that unease.  “The _Morrigan_ needed a few repairs after a run-in with some bounty hunters.”

“Ah, back to our piratical ways, I see.”

A laugh sounded from beside her.  “Only now and again, Grandmaster, and as necessary.”

Thomas vanished inside a tavern for a moment, following a fellow who’d been lurking about a shady stand earlier.  In her second sight, the man—unsavory though he appeared—glowed the steely blue of someone sympathetic to her cause.  One of Thomas’ smugglers, at a guess.

“…Also caught wind of an artifact seen around here.”

Arlette nodded.  “A so-called Apple of Eden?  Yes, Thomas and I got ahold of it.”

Shay’s face twisted a bit at the mention of the Piece of Eden; the Grandmaster had learned he didn’t merely mistrust the Pieces as she did, but genuinely _hated_ them and those who actively sought them out.  However, the look melted as the rest of the sentence sank in and the Irish pirate made a surprised noise.  “You brought _Thomas_ along?”  Then, a hum of understanding.  “That certainly explains Mistress Johnson’s bit of panic few weeks back.  We all wondered what happened to him, disappearin’ without any reason an’ not turnin’ up a few days later in a ditch.  Bit surprised _you_ at least didn’t leave a note.”

The Grandmaster couldn’t contain the exasperated eye roll.  Despite the fondness toward Thomas ( _he really had grown on her, against the odds, like a boozy patch of mold_ ) some things never ceased to irritate her about her scoundrel’s behavior.  “I didn’t bring him by choice.  He tagged along.”

“Ah.  Makes more sense when put that way.”

“Doesn’t it?”  Arlette continued watching the tavern from under her hat.  No sight of anyone she recognized yet, but no one with ill intents from what her second sight and honed instincts told her.  Then again, even Shay, who was a very accurate if occasionally imprecise way to detect dangerous characters, was lounging, cat-like against the wall beside her.  It reminded Arlette of the cat Willa had, though she had no idea how the mangy furball had made it as a permanent fixture in Johnson Hall.  The tom would frequently lay seemingly at rest, stretched out with eyes closed to slits, only to leap out an open window to catch a bird outside as though he’d not been dozing a few seconds earlier.  The Assassin-turned-hunter would likely be offended by the comparison to the cat, though, given his apparent general preference for dogs.  “How fares the rest of the Order?”

Shay shrugged, eyes still on the people milling around.  “Seem to be fine, but I’ve not been near enough to tell anythin’ much.  I’m sure it’s in good hands.”

Arlette certainly hoped so, anyway, and was very glad she’d sent a letter to Willa, and a second one to Charles despite how distasteful it had become to leave _him_ in charge of her Order recently.  He was organized, however, and decisive if temperamental.  A good man for the Templars despite Arlette’s personal feelings, which she was slowly getting over.

“Unless of course Lee’s in charge,” Shay started, clearly reading her thoughts.

At that moment Thomas came out of the tavern, sans his companion from earlier.  Arlette turned to him, rebuilding any of her guard that had dropped around Shay as Thomas came closer.  The Grandmaster was about to ask what he’d learned in the tavern, but her travelling companion spoke up before she could, whiskey eyes suspicious and fixed on the hunter.  “Oi, what’re _you_ doin’ ‘ere?”

“Coulda asked the same of you,” Shay replied with an equally icy look and Arlette prepared to step in, before both simultaneously broke into grins and Thomas thumped the other man on the shoulder in greeting.  Apparently, they were friends and this… it had to be a joke she was not privy to.  Or some odd dominance ritual, like the kinds seen among dogs.  _I will never understand men._

The Grandmaster cleared her throat and both men turned to their leader.  “Thomas, what have you learned?”

“Ah…”  The man shifted his weight in a way too calculated to be for comfort or regaining balance after drinking.   _Not a promising start_.  “Not so much.  But, uh, there ‘ave been Templars my boys up ‘ere dint recognize, heading further north.  The leader of the ‘ole thing’s probably a Frenchman holed up near Halifax.  Maybe further.”

Shay looked somewhat troubled.  Arlette understood this at least: Halifax had been his base for a while now, and considered it his territory.  Like as not, sensitive information came through regularly regardless of if it was stored there.  Someone new coming in, someone he suspected ( _and Arlette and Thomas could easily confirm_ ) meant ill for the Colonial Order, spelled disaster easily.  “I ought’a see for myself.  By your leave, Master Kenway.”

“Granted, so long as you take us with you.”

The hesitance before Shay nodded after a moment made her rankle a bit, but was quickly smoothed down.  Shay knew her secret, after all, and seemed eager to protect that knowledge and by extension the Grandmaster herself from any struggles linked directly to her identity.  There had been close calls, _of course_ , but he ought to know by now she was perfectly capable—not to mention willing—to break the nose of anyone who might say a cross word toward her.

…Oh.  Perhaps he was worried for his _crew_ , come to think of it.

Nonetheless the pirate nodded.  Not that he could in all honesty disobey a direct order from the Grandmaster, even if they were also close friends.  “We should be able to leave tomorrow.  I’ll have ta check with the harbourmaster.”  Arlette nodded, and turned back to Thomas as Shay left.  “Perhaps we ought to rent rooms for the night, in that case.”

Thomas shrugged, though seemed very happy about the prospect of sleeping in a proper bed rather than camping.  Arlette was looking forward to it as well, truthfully.  She was already fantasizing about a down-stuffed pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in a long time. I hope people like it so far, I promise this chapter is the only one that will basically repeat the scenes in the game, there is an actual plot beyond it.
> 
> NOTE EDIT: forgot to mention two things.  
> The lyrics at the top of the chapter are from "The Virgin Queen" by the Mediaeval Baebes. It's worth a listen, and describes much of the muse driving Arlette.
> 
> Arlette's name was also picked due to its meaning being closer to 'Haytham' than it sounding similar. 'Arlette', when derived from a Germanic or French base means approximately 'little/baby eagle', and when taken from Celtic origins means 'an oath'. I picked it for the first one, seeing as 'Haytham' is an Arabic name meaning 'young eagle'.


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